


False Dice

by phlox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M, HBP-Compliant, Remix, Romance, War Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlox/pseuds/phlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You always end with a jade's trick. I know you of old." Much Ado About Nothing, Act I, Scene I</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
>  **Beta Readers:** eucalyptus
> 
> Written for the Dramione-Remix LJ Fest, 2011. Prompt couple: Beatrice & Benedick, "Much Ado About Nothing."
> 
> What I've always found most compelling about the play is the implication that B & B had been involved before. Just how hurt would each of them have to be to strike out at each other so fiercely? Draco and Hermione fit so perfectly into this premise that a direct adaptation was irresistible.
> 
> This fic owes a debt to the conventions of AU wizarding war set down by everythursday in her most excellent epic, "The Fallout." As usual, *I'm* indebted to eucalyptus for her tireless efforts as beta.

  
_**Don Pedro** Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick._

 _ **Beatrice** Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one:  
marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your grace may well say I have lost it._

 _ **Don Pedro** You have put him down, lady, you have put him down._

 _ **Beatrice** So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. _

 

  
**~ * ACT ONE * ~**   


 

Harry sighed.

It wasn’t a great sigh, but it was the kind of sigh most people would be surprised to hear. Because if there was one thing the general public believed Harry Potter excelled at, it was suffering, and _that_ they assumed he did in silence. Those who were close to him, however, knew that he could suffer as loudly and self-indulgently as anyone, but he was (usually) forgiven for that straight away. After all, he was the Savior of the Wizarding World, and could be allowed a bad mood or two.

It had been less than an hour. Less than an hour since they’d taken back the Ministry from Death Eater control. A mere forty-five minutes had passed since the announcement that with the good news had also come the bad: two of the largest safe houses had been compromised, and they would have to hunker-down at Grimmauld Place until the situation stabilized. It had been a half-hour from the time they’d heard of the bravery that had distinguished Draco, Pansy and Daphne in the action. Those who had been left behind, unable to take part, had stewed in envy and reluctant admiration awaiting their arrival.

Barely ten minutes had passed since the victorious warriors had stumbled from the Floo into the front parlor. It was the only bright room in the house, with large east-facing windows lined up on one side. Just after sunrise, the room was bathed in bright, unforgiving light, mercilessly showing the dust in the air, the faded glory of the aged furniture, and the exhaustion of everyone therein. The wounded and shell-shocked had been moved to the back parlor, which was larger, darker, and quieter, leaving the room filled with the buzzing of new and cautious celebration.

Five minutes ago, Ron and Pansy had finally declared their feelings for each other to everyone in attendance. Well, they’d expressed them _aloud_ ; everyone was already well aware of each and every public and dramatic delight they’d been taking in one another for the past six months running. Harry was happy for Ron and Pansy. He would have been happy for anyone forging a relationship in the middle of war, and he truly wanted the best for them, but he wished the demonstrations of their _feelings_ were not quite so inappropriately timed.

Now, though Harry was thrilled at the remarkably few casualties and the warm, nearly-forgotten feeling of hope blossoming in his chest, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sent up a futile prayer for fortitude. Because he could deal with Ron, Pansy and the blush of young lovers. It was his patience for the battle that currently waged between Malfoy and Hermione that had just run out.

It was maddening that now, at a time of rejoicing, a mere hour since the greatest victory they’d had in the war, they were incapable of putting their differences to rest. Harry had been surprised at the fury with which Hermione had fought Malfoy’s defection, not buying for a second that he was sincere when showing up with Snape, Pansy Parkinson, and Daphne Greengrass on the very day they all should have been boarding the Hogwarts Express for their seventh year.

But Harry had seen something in Malfoy then, especially in the way he’d defended Snape in the short firefight that had ensued, with all four Slytherins casting only defensive spells until emotions had cooled enough to talk and _listen_. The opinion of Malfoy he’d formed that night on the Astronomy Tower solidified; Harry understood the lengths a son would go to keep his parents safe. The determination in Malfoy’s eyes showed Harry a mirror of his own.

He knew, deep down in the gut he’d learned over the course of years to trust, that he and Malfoy would be going after Voldemort together. This opinion had been shared throughout the Order, so that over the course of the last year or so, Malfoy had been accepted. Not _embraced_ mind you, though sometimes Harry thought that was due more to the bloke’s prickly nature than lingering suspicion.

Hermione, on the other hand, had fought Malfoy’s presence with a vehemence that overshadowed even Ron’s, and Harry hadn’t been able to figure out exactly why. After all, she had always been the most level-headed and forgiving of the three of them. By this point, she was certainly resigned to his presence and seemed even friendly with Pansy and Daphne, but with Malfoy, well... the two of them seemed to delight in tormenting each other on each and every occasion. Thus, all assignments and strategies had to take into account the need to keep them as far apart as possible.

Harry didn’t get the kind of entertainment out of their skirmishes that others did. Although the word for what they inspired could better be described as ‘stimulation;’ there were those who didn’t find it the least amusing and who could be counted on to huff and puff and fill the room with as much hot air as the two in question.

Seamus was apparently one. “I can’t take this,” he spat. “It’s disgusting how they go on about each other.” His eyes were narrowed, his cheeks were flushed, his face twisted.

Harry glanced over his shoulder to see if something more than the idiocy that was Malfoy and Hermione could have inspired such anger, but Seamus made a deep growling noise that had him turning back. Harry watched as he pushed through those assembled, making for the door and, presumably, solitude. Good luck finding it here, Harry thought.

Looking ahead to a week (at the very least) of being shut up in close quarters with more than three dozen members of the Order of the Phoenix, a throbbing pain formed behind his temples. Harry decided breakfast, propriety, and the bloody yardarm could go hang.

He needed a drink.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

Hermione blinked against the harsh whiteness of the morning sun, the taste in her mouth sour from too much coffee and too little sleep. Her mood was just as tart, but that was another story. She wanted to be happy about the fresh victory at the Ministry, to rejoice in the turn of the tide in the Second Great Wizarding War, but she couldn’t keep herself from being bothered long enough to feel it.

Ron and Pansy had been dancing the same dizzying and public dance for months now, and she couldn’t possibly be the only one itching for them to be done with it already. Surely the rest of those assembled in the front parlor were feeling the same sense of anticipation. (Of course, they could all have chosen to go on about their lives, but the intricacy of people’s personal business was far more enjoyable to focus on than the war.)

“Blimey, Pans, what if something had happened to you?” Ron said, kneeling by where she sat on the sofa, his eyes wide and mournful on a cut that ran along her forearm. It was shallow and had probably stopped bleeding long before the wound had reached his notice, but he held and stroked that arm as though he could heal it with the power of wishful thinking.

He could have healed it with his _wand_ , Hermione thought, but they seemed to be getting too much mileage out of it to bother with charms.

“Something could happen to any one of us any time, Weasley,” said Pansy with her chin high. “Where’s that Gryffindor courage? This is war.”

Hermione had to admit she was quite good at theatrics. Slytherin cunning, and all that.

“Don’t talk like that. You know if I could keep you out of it, I...” He shook his head, but his look was fierce and sincere.

Pansy’s expression and voice softened to match. “Yes. I know. But you know I have to fight. If it means just one more day closer to my father being back with me—” She cut off, choked-up, and there was no performance this time.

Bennett Parkinson had been pressed into Voldemort’s service years ago, and his desire to leave it had prompted his wife’s exile in France, and his daughter’s flight to the Order of the Phoenix. Pansy regarded it as a race against the clock to get this war finished to save him, and she’d made enough entreaties to the Ministry on his behalf that she’d been assured it wouldn’t just be a one-way ticket to Azkaban for him when it was all over.

 _If_ they could get in touch with him, that is. They needed to bring him into the fold to be sure that his intentions were as honorable as his daughter’s assertion.

Ron was suddenly flushed bright red, and he cleared his throat three times in preparation to speak. Hermione shifted forward from where she leaned against the grand piano in anticipation; there was something big about to be said, if she knew Ronald Weasley at all, and she did indeed know him well.

“Erm... listen, Pans. I’m not sure about this and all, but I was talking to my dad about your dad, and we’ve tried to make contact with him, you see.” He cleared his throat for a fourth time. “We haven’t succeeded yet, but...” He raised his head for the next bit, and his expression was resolute. “I’m gonna make sure he’s okay, Pans. ‘Cause there’s something really important I’m going to need to ask him, something I’m going to need his permission for when this is all over.”

Hermione’s eyebrows must have disappeared into her hairline. Ron was a good and honest man, and he would do what he could for his friends whenever he could, but this very clear promise, in front of everyone there, proved to her that he was as earnest as could be in his affection for this witch.

Pansy raised her head, a tear still clinging to the corner of her right eye, and looked down at him with much the same level of shock. Blooming around the edges, however, was wonder and affection. For the first time, Hermione could see what Ron saw in Pansy; beyond the pinched features, pale face, and blunt cut of her black hair, she was a lovely girl. Moreover, she was a girl in love.

Ron didn’t see this change, as he’d dropped his head and was focusing all of his sheepish attention on the scratch on her arm. “Look, I didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t want to get your hopes up—” His speech was cut off by Pansy’s two hands grabbing his face to tip it upward and by her two lips as they came crashing down upon his own.

It must be said, the collective sigh of relief was quite plain. Hermione’s was possibly the most obvious, but she did note Ginny, Luna, and Dean smiling and shaking their heads, while the twins hooted and hollered vaguely dirty suggestions and play-by-play commentary.

Hermione was sorry to see Ron’s technique hadn’t seemed to have improved much since the Lavender interlude of sixth year, but Pansy seemed quite taken with his enthusiasm as she shimmied her way off of the sofa and into his lap on the floor. Their spirited (and not soon to wane, by the look of things) snogging session had pride of place in the very center of the parlor.

“Well, I must say I was beginning to doubt all this talk of lions and courage and all that,” Daphne said, pulling her long, blonde hair out of its ponytail and brushing her fingers through it with an exhausted sigh as she sat at the far end of that same sofa. “But well played, Weasley.”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far,” Draco said, pulling his cloak from around his neck, “but even I can’t come up with anything nasty to say. Good show, Weasel.” He was still standing near the Floo, and though he was sweaty and dirt-streaked from battle, he spoke with a near-sincerity that almost gave Hermione pause.

Almost.

“Is that you back there, Malfoy?” she said, craning her neck dramatically around the people and furniture that separated them. “I hadn’t seen you, and had hoped against hope...” She sighed. “Still alive then, I see.”

Draco turned to face her, and his exhaustion disintegrated in an instant. “Looking for me, were you? You seem to always have your eye out for me, Granger.”

Hermione was suddenly feeling every buzzing ounce of the coffee she’d drunk. It was Fred and George’s call to action, and they turned about taking bets in hushed voices; Hermione was pleased to note that this time they were giving her odds.

“’Eye out’ you say? Aptly put. I want to _poke_ my eye out each time one or the other comes in contact with that pasty, pointy face of yours.” She raised her hand to her brow, shielding her eyes like a visor. “In this light, you’re nearly blinding. Have some pity and put a bag over it. Most of us haven’t slept.” Her hand fell to land on her hip, and her posture stretched to her full height.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? Sorry to hear you had trouble sleeping, bundled up all safe and warm while others did the dirty work.”

There was a chorus of reaction from the room – ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ mixed with some offended hisses – but Hermione wasn’t going to take the bait. Her tone remained light as she said, “I’m always happy to be safe in bed, far away from that pathetic slash and stab you call dueling. It’s a miracle there were no casualties from your _friendly_ fire.”

Draco’s eyes fairly sparkled and his grin was slow as he said, “You seem to spend an awful lot of time in bed fixated on my _wand work_ , Granger.” His voice lowered an octave and his smirk was lascivious.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply but was startled by a sudden giggle from Pansy, and she glanced over to see Ron nuzzle into her neck, embracing her tightly as he murmured against her skin. Immediately following, Seamus knocked into a spindly tea table, mumbling darkly on a furious zig-zag out of the room. When she focused back on Malfoy, his stance was victorious.

“Nothing to be frightened of, Granger. Just a little kissing,” Draco said, his voice low, intimate. “It doesn’t even have to mean anything, now does it?” His look was pointed.

Hermione’s head spun. How dare he, she thought. He had no right to speak of any of it.

“Wrong, Malfoy,” she forced out, softly, shaking her head. “It’s words that are meaningless. Actions are everything.”

She wasn’t sure if the room had actually gone quiet or if the blood rushing in her ears was blotting out all sound, but she was suddenly blind to everything and everybody in the room save for the tunnel that lead to him. Draco’s eye twitched, and there was a hint of _something_ there before the smirk took over his face and obliterated any actual, human emotion.

“Well, it’s when you’ve never actually _seen_ any action that everything looms so large.” He walked toward her, his gaze harshly pitying. “I’m sure if you wanted some experience, someone would offer to break you in.” He stopped in front of her, the slight flare of his nostrils the only sign that he was anything but amused. After just a moment’s pause where she struggled to hold his heavy gaze, he made a dismissive sound and strode confidently out of the room.

At his exit, it was like her ears popped, and the noise and the presence of the others in the room assaulted her with full force. She internally shook herself, her heart racing, but outwardly rolled her eyes and affected her best bored expression. It was good she had her poker face on. If she didn’t know it from the twisting of her stomach, she would by the money changing hands around her that _he’d_ won that round.

She was a champion though, and she shook it off. But seeing Harry pouring a few fingers-worth of firewhisky into a tumbler, she thought he might have the right idea.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

His eye was twitching again. It happened when he was incredibly agitated, but even then, almost exclusively when he was tired. And Draco was so, so tired, he wasn’t sure he’d even known the meaning of the word before this morning.

It was especially important to note that he was flat-out knackered, as this time the twitch definitely wasn’t because she’d gotten to him. Were she to think she’d actually succeeded in getting under his skin, he’d have to flay himself alive to dig her out, and _that_ he would do right in front of her, just so she could see just how little he was affected by—

Draco sighed. He was just so exhausted.

He needed this rest; they all did. Being forced to lay low at Grimmauld for the next week or so, as unpleasant as some aspects of it would be, was going to be a great gift. Draco hadn’t been here in over six weeks, which meant he hadn’t seen her in all that time. He, Pansy, and Daphne were kept busy and out of the way at locations in Scotland and Ireland most of the time, and that suited him fine.

They’d grown into very skilled fighters over the past year, and this victory last night was _theirs_. Since it had been deemed too dangerous to involve the precious Trio, they’d been given a special chance to distinguish themselves, delivering the greatest prize of the war to the Light. Now, with the Ministry back in their hands and significant numbers of Death Eaters captured or killed in the process, they were where they needed to be to prepare for the final blow.

From what Draco could gather from all the vague implications made by Potter, which only Granger and Weasley ever seemed to understand, enough had been done in preparation that they were ready to go after the snake. He wasn’t going to count _that_ win before it happened, though. Not until he saw the red-eyed monster dead with his own eyes.

Having dragged his weary arse up two dark flights of stairs, he pushed open the door to the room he shared with his two best friends. Draco had expected stale air and the general disarray of a room abandoned for weeks, but then, he always underestimated Mrs Weasley’s need to keep house. It usually gained intensity depending how much she was worried and in need of distraction, and even though she wasn’t terribly friendly with the three of them, she did enjoy a good cleaning challenge where she could get it.

The beds were crisply made with new linens, the clothes they’d left scattered about in haste were now cleaned and put away, and there was a vase of fresh flowers on the writing desk. Mrs Weasley had apparently been very concerned indeed about the raid on the Ministry. Draco couldn’t care less about the woman’s opinion or trust, but he was grateful for the service. She was dead useful in this house, and she did seem to be warming to him, if portion size was any indication. (Side glances at Potter’s servings seemed to signify that it was.)

The three ‘defectors’ (as they’d been termed) had been given Regulus’ room at Harry’s insistence. It had taken Draco a while to grasp the significance of it, as he’d known nothing of his late relative’s history before he arrived. As it was, the details were a bit hazy, but the gist of the story was that he’d died defying the Dark Lord. It wasn’t something that would have been talked about with pride by the Blacks or the Malfoys, so Draco was hardly shocked that he’d not heard of it. He’d had been cheered by the comparison to Regulus, however, and proud to count himself amongst those who had defied the Dark Lord.

No one stayed in Sirius’ room, though. Not even when the house was full to bursting as it was now would the sanctity of that room be disturbed. Draco had also gotten the full story of the last son of the Noble House of Black in bits and pieces, but he’d been stunned at the vast chasm that separated public perception from the true man.

He had to admit the reverence in which the man was held was warranted. The singleness of purpose that had sustained Sirius over the course of twelve years in Azkaban, not to mention his unprecedented escape from the fortress, was admirable by any measure. That he’d dog-paddled across the North Sea and traveled the breadth of Scotland with no other thought than to reach his godson was a sign of unshakeable character.

By any standard and to anyone who mattered, Sirius Black was a hero.

But Draco had crossed a gulf just as wide, cold, and treacherous when he’d made the passage from the life of his childhood, his family, his _home_ , to come to the Order. Draco was a hero in his own mind; he knew how difficult the journey had been, and he was a changed man, stripped of all pride and pretense, on the other side of it.

 _She_ didn’t see it that way, though. She couldn’t forgive what he’d done, expecting more as though the world was full of infallible creatures, and as if she could expect perfection from a teenage boy. She’d spent her adolescence with the likes of Harry Potter though, so her standards gave no slack for human frailty or circumstance. What made Draco the most angry, however, was that he should have known it was coming; this unyielding judgment, these impossible expectations.

“Loyalty,” she’d said, her voice low but clear. She didn’t need to whisper; the library was empty, and Madame Pince was far on the other side.

“’Loyalty?’ That’s what you think is the most admirable trait?” he’d scoffed, leaning in, elbows on the table. “A _dog_ is loyal.” He’d affected a wide-eyed look of apology then, snidely backpedaling. “Oh, I see, you’re talking about Weasley. My apologies.”

She’d ignored the gibe. “Dogs are _obedient_ , Malfoy. They follow their masters.” She’d said this pointedly.

Draco had known what she’d been inelegantly hinting at. “A man can be loyal to a lot of things, Granger. To all kinds of people and ideals. The trait in itself isn’t admirable.”

She’d sat up straight then, and it was clear a _speech_ was coming. Truth be told, he’d grown to sort of enjoy her speechifying and preaching over the last couple of months. What had started as a mutual need for a rare Arithmancy text in the Hogwarts Library had become the one thing in his life that brought him comfort sixth year.

When he’d been with Granger, he hadn’t had room left in his brain to think about anything else. She’d taken up all the thought processes, the emotion, the oxygen he used to function, and for the time he’d spent with her, the world had been blessedly silent beyond the edges of the space she inhabited. He’d begun to seek her out, to yearn for her company in what time he could spare from fixing the Vanishing Cabinet.

“There’s always one moment of truth, when one has to take a stand, choose a side. That moment says everything about a person, and it will all come down to loyalty,” she’d said, her eyes ablaze with sheer conviction, and he was mesmerized by her capacity for it. “What is it that means the most to that person? What are their values? Just how far will they stick their neck out to defend them? And most importantly, are they worthwhile or are they self-serving?” She’d leaned in, speaking conspiratorially. “A person can be loyal only to himself, but that’s obviously not noble. It’s in the object of their loyalty that a person’s character is found. That’s why it’s the most important, and why I always have my eye out for it.”

Slightly overwhelmed, he’d not been able to respond to that with anything but snark. “Well, with standards that high, you’ll never be having it off, Granger, I’m sorry to say. No one could measure up to _that_.”

She’d blushed so prettily then it had taken his breath away, stopped time, or whatever ridiculous cliché fit to explain how this moment, this image of her, would stay always in his mind’s eye. Looking down, straightening her papers, she’d said, “No one said anything about...” She’d gestured daintily but ineffectually. Clearing her throat, she’d continued, “Arithmancy is due tomorrow, so... What did you get for seventeen?” She’d kept her eyes averted, and he’d been able to study her for a long moment.

He’d been so tired. His eyes had seemed like they were in a perpetual state of dry burning, and he’d not been able to recognize his face in the mirror underneath the circles shadowing them for months. But still, though he wasn’t yet at the point where he could admit it to himself, he’d wanted to be a man she could admire. This wide-eyed Gryffindor had thought that the world was that simple, and Draco had yearned to live in such a place, where right and wrong were so clear-cut.

But now, he wasn’t about to apologize; he hadn’t since and he wouldn’t. He’d done what he had to do to keep his parents safe, just as much as what he was doing now was accomplishing the same. All of this talk of ‘ends’ and ‘objects’ of actions was too much to put on a person.

What he was doing now was ensuring that his mum and dad were able to stay in the safe house in which they were ensconced. Though at first he’d felt like he was trading for their protection by risking his life for the Order, he’d finally made a shift in his thinking. Draco would defeat the Dark Lord, he would contribute to the end of Voldemort, because _that_ would be what made the world safe for his family.

What he’d done and tried to do in sixth year had been to accomplish the same though, and he was done splitting hairs with that swotty prude.

A shower was in order, Draco decided. He pulled clean, neatly-folded clothes from the wardrobe, grabbed thick, fluffy towels, and headed for the sweet-smelling loo. Every muscle in his body needed a nice, long soak in civilization.


	2. Chapter 2

  
**~ * ACT TWO * ~**   


 

This idea had ‘disaster’ written all over it.

Well, to be fair to disasters, Hermione wasn’t sure what the right term was for the convergence of two dozen young fighters wanting to let off steam, a case of firewhisky, and the newest Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes product in need of testing. But, nearly thirty-six hours since their victory at the Battle of the Ministry, everyone was suitably rested and looking about for something to do.

After a spread from Molly, the likes of which had only been seen by those who had spent a holiday with the Weasleys, Fred and George had stood at the head of the table laying out the rules for the evening like twisted professors setting an exam.

“You’ll each take a bottle of potion—”

“Which mimics some aspects of our Patented Daydream Charm and is also patent pending—”

“But which lasts for two hours instead of the incredibly limiting one.”

“It _is_ limiting. Excellent point, Fred. Extending that is what I’m most proud of.”

“I agree. Some of our best work, mate.”

“Well, you came up with the scurvy-grass—”

“True, but your mention of the Befuddlement Draught made it a no-brainer, though I wondered—”

“Oi! We’re waiting here,” yelled Lee.

“Smashing – I see you’re raring to go.” Either Fred or George (she’d lost track already) smirked knowingly and rubbed his hands together, conjuring a very disturbing image of a Snake-Oil Salesman. “Upon ingestion, the potion will change the look of each of you—”

“To some archetypal, mythological, or literary creature, being, or form—”

“But only in the eye of the _beholder._ ”

“Hence its name, ‘The Elixir of Truth or Beauty!’”

That was followed by a moment of stunned (though by no means reverent) silence.

“Hang on,” Dean said, frowning, “you’re saying we’ll not actually change shape, but just _look_ different to everyone else?”

“Well followed, Dean. You know, George, we should really think of handing out quizzes on these sorts of things to reward good listening.”

“Agreed,” he said with a curt nod of approval. “What each of you will _see_ is everyone the way you view them, either consciously or unconsciously... what you think of their nature or what you suspect of their true selves.”

He allowed that to linger in the air as they all looked around. Hermione contemplated how she would surely be seeing each in turn, and her stomach knotted when she saw the adoring looks on Pansy and Ron. They looked to each other with pure admiration and trust; she couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt that.

“So here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll each take a bottle and a blindfold—”

“Blindfold!” Ron exclaimed. “What are you two playing at with blindfolds?”

“It’ll be more fun if no one knows who is _where_ when we begin, so just shut your trap and listen, Ronald.”

“Thanks, Fred. As I was saying, each of you will blindfold yourselves, take a phial of the potion, and be led to a different part of the house by one of our handsome partners or yours, truly.”

“You’ll then drink the potion, wait the forty-three seconds—”

“Or thereabouts—”

“For it to take effect, and then open your eyes to the fun and frolic of the evening.”

“And, Bob’s your uncle – instant party. You’ll regale your friends and annoy your enemies with tales of this evening for years to come.”

That brought some dubious noises from the group and a fair few groans, but knowing how implacable the twins were, having suffered through other WWW ‘tests’ and survived, they each reached forward and took the instruments of what they fully expected to be their doom. It appeared some of the senior members of the Order were taking part to help Fred and George though, so it wasn’t likely anything too bad would happen.

It was most certainly one of the twins who led Hermione to her place, as only they would have sat her arse on the toilet in the downstairs loo to begin the game. As the door closed her in, she tossed back the potion, enjoying the lemony taste. If Fred and George were good at one thing (and even she could admit that they did a great many things well) it was making their potions palatable. To her frustration though, they were adamant at keeping their secrets and wouldn’t help her make headache potion that didn’t taste like rotten broccoli.

She waited for the elixir to take effect, but pulled off the blindfold after a minute when she felt nothing happen. Surprised to find herself feeling a bit disappointed, she looked herself over in the mirror, steeling herself for the evening. Draco was out there. At the thought, she was suddenly glad that the potion wasn’t working; she couldn’t stomach the demon he would surely have appeared to her as. They’d stayed out of each other’s way for the past twenty-four hours though, so they should be able to make it through a silly party. Taking a deep breath, she left the loo to report her results in the name of science.

Following the music up to the front parlor, she pushed open the double doors to pulsing, colored lighting. Her eyes widened as she took in a potion-induced room full of strangers and strange beings. Rather, they were people she recognized, though only as _characters_. It seemed they had walked from the pages of her favorite books and off the screens of her favorite movies and television to mingle about for the evening. The potion had worked.

Apparently Remus was one of the senior members of the Order who had decided to take part, as Atticus Finch was piling a plate high with refreshments. A jovial (and decidedly female) Puck from _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ hung off his arm, her hair changing colors with the lighting. Hermione would bet Galleons that Helen of Troy was none other than Fleur; the eyes of the men in the room were on her, but they kept their distance in deference to the scarred Sir Gawain standing next to her.

Hermione had no idea she was so attached to the Arthurian tales, but since Galahad appeared to be walking toward her, she’d obviously absorbed more from her father reading them to her as a child than she thought. The knight in question looked rather dazed and bashful, so she spared him the discomfort and said ‘hello.’

“Merlin, you look like...” He sounded wondrous, yet a little sad. “You look like you could be my sister.” Hermione must have looked taken aback, because he rushed to continue, “You just remind me of my mum.”

Recognizing Neville, Hermione was terribly touched, even more so when he revealed that he knew who she was too. To lighten the mood, she asked him to dance and spent a blissful time feeling more carefree than she had in years.

On the floor, she was surrounded at one point by Eric Idle and Michael Palin in drag along with the seventh Dr Who, whom she easily surmised were the twins and Lee Jordan, though she still couldn’t tell which was which. They left her alone after one song though, and as she made her way for some punch, she saw them surrounding Xena the Warrior Princess and Wonder Woman. (She never could figure out which twin was dating Angelina and which was dating Katie, and at her more cynical moments, she suspected neither could they.)

At the punchbowl, she was surprised to be accosted by Carrie Bradshaw. ‘Sex and the City’ was a new show she’d only seen a couple of times, but what she knew of the character did sort of suit Ginny.

“Hermione?” At her nod, she gushed, “You look like a young McGonagall, but that’s absolutely a compliment. I mean,” she said, eyeing her with a raised brow, “McGonagall had some really nice legs in her time.” Ginny practically bounced in her enthusiasm. “Isn’t this wild?”

She shook off the irritation of being compared physically to her mentor and sniffed, “I have to admit, albeit reluctantly – and if you mention it I will surely deny it – that Fred and George may have outdone themselves with this one. It’s a fascinating potion.”

“It’s positively sordid!” She squealed, sounding as though there couldn’t be any higher compliment paid to anything. “Have you seen Amata and the Knight over there?” Ginny gestured behind her with a flick of her head and rolled eyes.

Amata and the Knight were from the Beedle the Bard tale ‘The Fountain of Fair Fortune,’ but when she looked that way, all Hermione saw were Princess Buttercup and Westley. That seemed rather appropriate for Pansy and Ron, especially since the latter was on bended knee with the most ‘as you wish’ expression she’d ever seen. Hermione’s heart skipped at the sight of such unadulterated adoration.

“Hello, Ginny, Hermione,” an ethereal voice said from behind them. Hermione couldn’t imagine it to be anyone but Luna, and sure enough, upon turning about, she was confronted with the sight of Glinda the Good Witch of the North.

Ginny frowned. “Did we give ourselves away somehow from a distance?”

“Oh, no, I don’t know... You look like yourselves, really. Everyone does...” She looked about with a pensive smile. “Except for Seamus. He’s sort of... fuzzy.” She shrugged. “But I’ll have to tell my dad about the potion. It’s marvelous at showing auras, so it will be dead useful for his investigative reporting.”

Hermione was rather startled by the possibilities in that statement. The potion could be a bit dangerous if people were to believe what they saw was the _truth_. There was a sort of subjective truth to it, of course, but it couldn’t be relied upon.

As Ginny and Luna began chatting animatedly about the personas of who danced with whom (from Ginny) and what color they glowed (from Luna), she looked about for Harry, who she hadn’t seen since she’d arrived. (‘Mr Big’ seemed unlikely.) Looking about, she came up with nothing but various Shakespearean characters, the Phantom of the Opera grumbling at Atticus, and Mrs Piggle-Wiggle refilling the refreshments.

So taken was she upon seeing Molly as the embodiment of her favorite children’s book character, she didn’t notice someone coming up behind her.

“Love, I’ve got you narrowed down to three possible people, and I’d like to dance with each and every one of them. Care to oblige?” he purred in her ear.

Hermione turned to see none other than Mr Wickham, or rather the actor who played him in the BBC version she’d watched with her mum a few years ago. She’d never really liked the character, had certainly not cared for the actor playing him, and most positively _loathed_ the person under the persona.

How apt for her to see Draco in this guise. But he clearly didn’t recognize her.

Hermione no longer believed Draco was a spy, or that he meant their side any harm; she trusted that he sincerely wanted to help defeat Voldemort. She knew he‘d never truly supported evil, but she also knew he was the epitome of a Slytherin. They were only ever out for themselves and what they could get to benefit _them_ , and every action, impulse, and overture occurred with that in mind.

That Draco couldn’t see her through her persona was telling, she thought, and it disgusted her. Apparently, he had never really gotten to know the real her and could only ever see anyone through the filter of his own wants. So, if there was something special Draco was trying to get out of being with the Order for himself, Hermione wanted to know what it was. Turning about, she batted her eyelashes and accepted his offer. She sashayed to where the rest were dancing, knowing he’d follow like an obedient dog.

“You sure look like the cat that got the cream,” she said, sidling up to him as he wrapped his arm about her waist and began to lead her in a slow dance.

He smirked. “You could say that...” The mirth disappeared as he looked around at the other dancers, and he maneuvered them roughly away from Westley and Buttercup. There was a lost look in his eyes when they turned back to hers. “You ever felt like nothing would go your way?”

“Sure.” She shrugged, regarding him carefully. “We’ve all felt that in this war.”

Wickham shook his head, frustrated. She could see that it wasn’t at all what he’d been getting at and switched tacks. “Yeah, well that’s almost over anyway. When it is, those of us who’ve worked for it are gonna get what they deserve.”

There was steely determination in his eyes, and she thought maybe she’d given Draco far too much credit for redemption. “Oh, yeah? And what is it you deserve?”

“Something that can’t be taken away. Things are gonna be different – I’m not going to be tossed out like rubbish ever again,” he said, and she could see hurt underneath the anger. “There are the things you’re born into, and the things you earn, and it’s what you earn that matters.”

Hermione was shaken by his words and manner, but confused as well. When had Draco ever been discarded like a used tissue? She couldn’t imagine he had idea what that was like, and her stomach churned with indignation at the thought that he was so self-righteous about anything. He couldn’t have any cause.

“What about you... Hannah?” he asked hopefully. At her noncommittal giggle, he seemed to believe he’d gotten it right. His eyes shone with satisfaction. “What do you want? Anything I could give you, Love?”

Hermione shrugged and turned her head to his shoulder, searching for a way to escape the dance. She found one in the form of Indiana Jones – complete with fedora, leather jacket, and whip – who had just appeared from an alcove. She breathed a sigh of relief – just who she’d been looking for.

“Can you hold that thought? I need to speak to Harry.” Hermione said, gesturing toward Indy. Wickham’s brow furrowed as he looked to where she gestured, but she turned away before he could respond.

She needed to get away from this manipulative git and never, ever doubt her intuition again.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

Draco glanced at his watch, relieved to see that less than ten minutes of the potion’s effect remained.

He was coming down with a blistering headache. He’d spent the party surrounded by the personages of the Major Arcana, and the implications of all that aside, it was simply blinding looking at them depicted from so many different decks. He cursed his mum for being such an avid collector, especially of some of the more abstract ones; he shook his head to clear it of the monstrosity that was Neville as ‘The Fool’ from the expressionistic Tarot de Pumariega. Most of the rest of them were drawn far more tamely, but it was still as hard on the eyes as it was on the psyche.

Because what was more disturbing were the interpretations of each. For instance, he didn’t enjoy facing the fact that somewhere – deep, deep down though it may be – he viewed Potter as ‘Judgement.’ Draco wasn’t comfortable giving him that much credit. He’d never wanted to admit to believing the bespectacled git ultimately had that much importance to the whole of the war, with the responsibility of the penultimate battle and being the source of everyone’s salvation. The notion diminished Draco’s role, and that irked him incredibly.

But overall, this potion was an interesting exercise, he had to admit. Seeing Pansy and her Weasel as ‘The Lovers’ was predictable; having found each other, they were truly coming together as whole, full beings, embodying the spirit of the trump. His friend had not had the easiest of times, but if she could be happy with that wanker (who, it turned out, wasn’t the worst bloke to fight next to – he really was good at having your back, and that’s something Draco would always appreciate), then he was happy for her.

He worried a bit about Daphne, but as ‘The Moon,’ even her archetype was appropriately mocking his inability to understand her and her shifting, changeable moods. She would seem fine for long periods of time, then fall into bouts of melancholy without warning. Unlike Pansy or himself, she had lost family in the war; her mum had died as an innocent bystander in a skirmish in Diagon Alley nearly a year ago. At times, a deep sadness could be seen in her eyes, and at others, cold fury would overtake her and she would lash out indiscriminately.

Molly as ‘The Empress,’ was rather unsurprising, as she was motherly to everyone she came in contact with (only himself excepted), and Arthur was very appropriately ‘The Emperor’ of his family as well as the Order. Seeing Remus as the embodiment of education and tradition as ‘The Heirophant’ and Moody as the ultimate warrior in ‘The Chariot’ left Draco with no other choice but to grudgingly admit to respect for each man and the role they played.

It was exhausting to have this much self-examination in one night, but it was probably just the alcohol making him sentimental.

There was someone walking around as ‘The Devil’ though, and he couldn’t quite place who it was. It was such an ambiguous archetype, and it was difficult for Draco to tell if the person was only a danger to himself or to others as well. He didn’t like not knowing his enemies; spending the past few years putting his back to walls had made him used to being wary. He usually knew of _whom_ to be suspicious though, and he didn’t like any danger he couldn’t identify.

Pulled from his thoughts by a foul wind blowing briskly his way, he was unsurprised when he looked up to see the cause. Of course. It was _her_.

Draco had avoided looking for her this evening, not wanting to even wonder... But here was Hermione, coming toward him puffed with self-importance. Naturally, he saw her in the guise of ‘The High Priestess.’ How apt, he thought. Powerful. Wise. Untouchable. _Virginal_. He steeled himself for whatever horrific thing she would accuse him of this time.

“Harry, I’ve been looking for you.”

Draco’s eyes must have been in danger of rolling out of his head, as wide as they went at that. She thought he was _Potter_? A warmth settled in his belly as he smiled and nodded; this was going to be fun. Never one to pass up an opportunity, he hastily affected the slouch and general inelegance he could only imagine of one who was raised in a cupboard.

“Yes, Hermione?” Bugger, that was too formal, or civilized, or... something.

Her eyebrows knitted slightly, but she shook it off. “Listen, I know we aren’t supposed to know about the assignments of everyone else, and I’m not really _asking_ you what Malfoy will be doing next, but...”

She looked back over her shoulder. Draco followed her gaze but couldn’t tell at whom it was directed. Unless... Could she see ‘The Devil’ too?

Turning back to him, she said, lowly, “I just wanted to reiterate that I don’t fully trust Malfoy’s intentions.” She held up her hand to forestall him. “Now, I know he’s proved to be a good fighter, and I don’t doubt that he opposes Voldemort...”

Something twitched in Draco’s chest at that, though it wasn’t like her opinion _mattered_. Still, he had to work to keep his voice easy as he leaned in. “But?”

“Yes, well, but... I think his motives are unclear and possibly self-serving. I think...” She looked around furtively, then leaned in as though she were about to impart something very unpleasant. “I think his allegiance is fickle.”

Well. That wasn’t unpleasant so much as hypocritical.

“Is that so,” Draco said, quietly seething. Belatedly remembering to appear ill-bred, he continued, “Erm... yeah. It’s funny, ‘Mione, but he thinks the same thing about you.”

The change in her expression was immediate: from sanctimonious to righteously indignant in less than sixty seconds. It was a wonder to behold, and Draco could admit to loving the flush of her face when she got angry and the rush he felt in his gut when he was a part of it. Her jaw had dropped and she was flabbergasted, unable to speak. It was positively delightful.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “He said something or other about you needing certificates of merit from anyone before you’d trust ‘em. And, uhh... that they expire and have to be renewed daily.” He shrugged again, offhandedly. “He said we wouldn’t have anyone to fight at all if it depended on your opinion.” Draco felt a lovely tingle of satisfaction as he saw her gearing up her response.

“He wouldn’t know anything about merit! You’ve seen how he kisses the arses of Remus and Moody, like he’s back in Potions with Snape or something, and that’s going to get him anywhere.” She huffed a laugh. “As though anyone cared about flattery or status right now. But when that’s all you have to rely on, and you’re accustomed to using people—”

“Using people?” Draco snorted. After that speech, he cared not a bit for blowing his cover. ”You don’t think that’s what the Order of the Phoenix does with its soldiers? It’s what they’re _for_. Don’t get all high and mighty about motives.”

She was taken aback, and since he could see the image of the High Priestess beginning to flicker and fade, he imagined whatever he appeared as was too. Judging from the look in her eyes, she was beginning to see his true self. She shook her head, looking franticly about the room. He could tell when she lit on Potter, because her shoulders slumped and she harshly muttered something that sounded like ‘sky-walker.’

His triumph was heady. “Well, Granger. Seems you’re not such a brilliant judge of character after all.”

Turning back to him, she took a deep breath, and the anger in her expression was quickly schooled to affected pity. “Clearly the potion is faulty, Malfoy. I thought I saw a human there, not a mass of ego and ambition.” She smirked, cocking her head. “My mistake.”

“I’ll have to agree with you there. This potion is worth fuck-all since it showed you as a living, breathing woman, not a book of rules and regulations.”

“There’s nothing wrong with standards, Malfoy, but I can imagine if you’ve always fallen short—”

“Not in the measurements that matter, Granger,” he said roughly.

She narrowed her eyes. “You _would_ think that was all that—“ She shook her head. “The only thing that matters is trust.” Her eyes blazed with conviction, just like he remembered, but there was cruelty in them now as she raised her chin haughtily. “I’m sorry to say you’ll never make it on that scale.”

As he stared into her eyes, fury taking over, he realized his heart was pounding against the hush that surrounded them. The room had gone silent; the attention of the party was again on them. Draco was suddenly through with this: this woman, this argument, this feeling. So when Remus came up and softly asked what was going on, he rounded on him.

“Remus. I beg you, find me someplace else to go. Surely there’s some safe house, shack, woodshed, or shoebox where I could be far more comfortable than I am here?” Remus shook his head and Draco saw him glance at Hermione, a faint, amused smile on his lips. It only made Draco more annoyed. “Fine, do you have anything for me to do? I’ll deliver any package to anywhere in the civilized or _un_ civilized world for you, and I’ll do it right now.

“If you were to ask me for Aunt Bella’s toenail clippings, or the whiskers of a Manticore, I would get them happily and bring them back for you.” There were scattered laughs and sounds of disgust, and they fueled his anger. “I promise you – I beg of you, Remus... I will go to the Dar— to _Voldemort_ directly, dressed in Mundungus’ clothes and bearing the new line of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes just to sing the creepy git a lullaby, if you’ll only send me!”

Draco’s fists clenched and unclenched of their own accord; his breath was quick and the blood rushed in his veins.

Remus stood, arms crossed, looking infuriatingly patient as always. “But then what would we do without your smiling face, Draco?”

There were shouts and good-natured laughter, but Draco had reached his limit. The polite acceptance he’d achieved with this bunch wasn’t enough anymore. Because if there wasn’t anything he could do to change her mind, there was no point even trying.

He turned to Hermione, and she met his look with straight-backed calm, hands on her hips. Looking about the room, Draco announced, “I’ll leave you all to your fun and games. I’m done.”

With that, he quit the parlor, the party, and the pursuit of any satisfaction to be had that evening.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

Harry groaned.

It was the kind of groan one gave at three o’clock in the morning, long past the time when one had moved from firewhisky to ale to water: when the music on the wireless had switched to mournful classics; when the only refreshments left were the bad ends of things; and when one was listening to the planning of an absolutely, impossibly, disastrous idea.

Mustn’t neglect to mention the Very Bad Idea; it was key to the feeling and desperation behind this particular groan.

The thrust of this initiative was that it was _clear_ , having watched the latest skirmish involving one Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, the two of them were just aching for each other. Ginny, Luna and Pansy thought it frightfully romantic and had rattled off a slew of literary support, both wizarding and Muggle, as parallel for the man and woman who protest far too much. Daphne, Fred, George, and Dean believed it to be terribly amusing to see so much sexual tension between just two people, and they felt it would be a kind service to relieve this witch and wizard of any and all resistance to its release.

Ron went with whatever Pansy said about anything, which was particularly frustrating to Harry. Because he thought if Ron had been in his right and objective mind, he would see there was something behind what Hermione felt about Malfoy, and would be as worried about her as a best friend should be. She was hurt, which was becoming plain to Harry, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. Her hand being forced like this could accomplish that, but he didn’t want her injured in the process.

The pitch had begun mere minutes after Hermione had left the party for bed, and it had quickly become a full-fledged scheme with Fred and George at its head. They would endeavor to fool each into thinking the other was in love with them, then stand back and watch what happened as though they were a package of Weasleys’ Wildfire Whizz-bangs.

It was clear to Harry that everyone was bored and in need of occupation. For his part, Harry would have gladly slain any and all Dark wizards instead.


	3. Chapter 3

  
**~ * ACT THREE * ~**   


 

Looking back, she really should have wondered why he’d gone even paler than usual that first time she’d led him to the Room of Requirement. But she’d been so unsure of herself and so out of her element, she hadn’t been as observant or as careful. If she’d been _careful_ , none of it would have ever happened.

She wasn’t sure whether she would rather it hadn’t.

Hermione had paced back and forth the requisite three times, asking the Room to create somewhere comfortable, and Draco had relaxed when she’d opened the door. They’d stepped into something like one of their common rooms but neutral, without any charge of house identity or allegiance. Anything involving ‘loyalty’ would have evoked feelings in her she’d been having good luck ‘til then ignoring.

She’d told herself getting to know Draco better was helping her get to the bottom of Harry’s unhealthy obsession with his activities. Surely, she could prove wrong her friend’s assumptions; a snarky git though he was, that didn’t mean he’d become a Death Eater.

Hermione hadn’t been able to imagine such capacity for evil of someone she’d seen at breakfast every day since she was eleven, and certainly not of _this_ boy with whom she’d shared so many evenings. She’d known what Death Eaters were, had looked them in the eye, had fought them and survived, and he wasn’t one of them.

It had been naïve – she’d known so at the time, even – but she couldn’t believe it of Malfoy and had set out to prove her blind spot to be the truth.

Their time together had started accidentally, with the sharing of a book in the Library. That had led to feigned accidental run-ins, which had grown gradually to planned meetings. It had been she who’d decided to move it to the Room of Requirement, wanting to go where the two of them could exist outside of friends, families, or causes.

Hermione had thought if Draco could only find a place to _relax_ , the strain that had shown constantly on his face could have lessened, even for a short while. She’d known he was under some great pressure, and in her usual fashion, she’d believed herself to be the only one who could help him through it.

They’d met every Thursday night and sometimes on Sundays, and every time, he was at the Room first, waiting for her.

He’d kissed her for the first time the night Ron was in the infirmary recovering from drinking the poisoned mead. Hermione had arrived at the Room with her emotions in a jumble, and Draco had awkwardly reached for her, rigidly holding her until her crying ceased. His lips had touched hers even more awkwardly then, stiffly moving against hers. When he’d pulled away, his eyes had been wide in shock and he’d swallowed thickly, looking pale and shaken.

Hermione’s stomach had burned with hurt from his reaction, and she’d pushed at his chest to get away, but he’d held her arms tightly. Licking his lips, the look in his eyes had softened, and he’d resolutely leaned in to kiss her again. He’d kept kissing her until her skin was chafed from his light blond stubble, until her moans had inspired his own, and until it was so far past curfew they’d had to use Disillusionment Charms to get back to their rooms.

He’d kissed her every time they’d met after that.

After they’d discussed the Arithmantic underpinnings of the magic that went into a Vanishing Cabinet, he’d lifted her against the wall and pulled her legs to wrap about him. He’d snogged her past all rational thought, and his fingers had pushed under the elastic of her knickers until she’d told him to stop.

The night he’d expressed his admiration for the Protean Charm she’d used on the coins Dumbledore’s Army communicated with, they’d practiced casting the difficult charm on objects in the room. When they had grown exhausted, they’d lain side by side on the sofa, and he’d kissed her gently and sweetly as he’d unbuttoned her blouse to his gaze and lifted her skirt to his questing fingers.

When Harry had told her everything he’d learned of Draco that horrible night on the Astronomy Tower, and how the boy she’d cared for, cared about, had torn a gash in the sanctity of Hogwarts to usher in the Death Eaters, Hermione had cried until she’d thrown up. Whether it was from physical exhaustion or self-disgust, she’d not been able to tell.

The day Draco had arrived at Grimmauld Place with Pansy, Daphne, and Snape, he’d followed Hermione upstairs after the vote that allowed them into the Order. He’d begged her to let him explain. She’d listened to not a word of it, slamming her bedroom door in his face.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

When Draco was young, his father told him the trick to flying was to conquer the air. That had made little sense to him as a boy of ten, because air was nothing. He had swatted at it, made to scoop it up with his hands, tried to punch holes in it with pudgy fists, but there was nobody there. When he’d asked his mother, she’d made more sense, saying he would need to embrace the air, to feel it around him, holding him, buoying him up like water in the ocean. With that image in his mind, he’d taken to the sky on his broom and fallen in love with the freedom of flight, never once afraid of falling.

But as a grown wizard, as a fighter, a _man_ , Draco had come to understand what his father had meant. The air around us was more than nothing: it was everything and everywhere. He could feel it, pushing against him, trying to take up all the space he did not; to fly in it, you had to push _back_. It was when he concentrated on cutting it like a knife, when he endeavored to move it with the force of his body and his broom, that he could fly faster and farther and more dizzyingly than any Snitch. It was then he could feel like he’d won. Then, he was bigger, stronger, and better than the sky itself.

Draco could find peace wherever he was as long as he could take to the air. As small and insignificant as this war could make him feel, one hour of racing the very gods around the clouds and his anger would dissipate. He would feel his power, as though he’d filled himself to the tippy-top and could face anything.

Even Granger.

He flew high in the air above the back garden at Grimmauld Place the afternoon following the Weasley Wankers’ version of a masquerade to purge the simmering cauldron in his gut. Granger had a talent for making him feel small and wrong, and it was here he came to remind himself what stuff he was made of. After just an hour racing his Snitch about the barely adequate space the Fidelius Charm afforded, he was like a new man.

Let her bring her accusations and judgments; he would push back against them like so much air.

That sort of cleansing experience worked up a sweat and an appetite, and it was nearing lunchtime as he walked his way back to the house through the impressively overgrown back garden. Though it had once been well manicured and grand, its current state wasn’t ugly – far from it. There was a wild danger to it, as though the flora was just waiting to swallow the space and everyone in it whole. It was just coming on spring, and the colors were vibrantly making themselves known, warning all who ventured into it that nature ruled here.

It fit Draco’s mood. He cut from the path through a small grove, still buzzing from his flight.

“I can’t say I ever really bought into the whole ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age’ nonsense, but... to be in love with _Draco_? That would be sheer idiocy.”

The voice carried clearly through the garden and Draco stopped in his tracks, his head snapping up and turning toward it.

“I didn’t believe it either, but you should see her. It’s pathetic, really, and Ginny’s downright worried about it.”

 _That_ was Pansy. Was she talking about...? Draco moved to the edge of the trees where there still afforded some cover, trying to angle around to peek their direction.

“Well, I don’t want to believe it, that’s for sure—“ The Weasel. He gave an odd little hiccup, then cleared his throat before saying enthusiastically, “Yeah, it seems she’s got her heart dead-set on Malfoy.”

At that moment, Draco secured his view through the leaves and branches to see Weasley lounging up against a stone bench next to Pansy and Daphne. They were talking about Hermione and... him? This couldn’t be true. All of his senses were suddenly on high alert.

“But,” said Daphne, her face twisting in confusion, “it doesn’t make any sense. She looks at him like he’s been dipped in dung and can’t stand him as far as she can throw him!”

Now, Draco thought that was a bit of an exaggeration. She didn’t find him unattractive, surely.

“Nah, it’s an act. She’s just scared.” Pansy shrugged.

“She has always had a bit of trouble showing a bloke how she feels, you know,” said Weasley.

Draco scowled, thinking of how that gormless git had treated Hermione in sixth year; he had quite the audacity to criticize her for—

“Have you got any proof of this?” Daphne said, not convinced. “I mean, other than what Ginny’s said?”

“Oh yes, Ron’s heard how she goes on about him.”

“Uh... yeah, I’ve heard loads of stuff.”

“Really? What kind of stuff?” Daphne was really interested now.

“Go on, love, tell her what you told me,” Pansy said, poking him as his face turned red.

That Weasel was a bit of a ponce. He gestured for them to lean in before he began to explain, so Draco could only hear scattered words and not that well. He needed to get closer. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled out from behind the trees to the cover of some flowering bushes. Able to follow them around a few meters, he made his way to a gap in the branches to see through, much closer and well within hearing of Daphne’s exclamation.

“Wow, I would never have guessed!”

“I know, I didn’t either until I heard about _that_ ,” Pansy said, nodding, smirking, and looking in every way pleased as punch.

Bollocks! What the bloody hell was the proof? Draco’s head was positively spinning. He would never have believed any of this himself, knowing Pansy and Daphne (and Slytherins in general) as he did, but the fact that _Weasley_ was corroborating all of this really gave him pause. He was one of Hermione’s best friends, and he would know, right? He certainly would never play a dirty trick like this on her, would he?

No. Gryffindors were too soft and sweet. Hermione sure was. She was so soft and sw—

“We have to tell Draco then. He’ll want to—”

“What, are you mental, Daphne?” Pansy’s voice neared a pitch heard only by Crups. “You know what Draco would do with that sort of information!”

“Yeah, he’d humiliate her and break her heart.” Weasley said fiercely. “I would never let that happen.”

For a moment, forgetting he was the slandered party, Draco had to hand it to the befreckled git for protectiveness and loyalty. Hermione deserved it. But _he_ didn’t deserve this, he thought indignantly. What had he done that they would think he’d treat her so—?

Strike that. He had an inkling.

“You’re right. It’s impossible.” Daphne shook her head sadly, and Draco’s stomach churned with remorse at the censure in her expression. “Well, what can we do then?”

“We can only keep her from making a fool out of herself, and help her get over it.” Pansy sighed, then her disappointed look turned sharply bright. “It’s not like it should last that long, anyway. I’ll wager Draco will drive any feelings of love out of her before this week is through.” Pansy laughed, ruffling her fingers through the Weasel’s hair. “Too bad we couldn’t score another for interhouse unity, huh?”

Pansy was a proud Slytherin, but she’d not had the same problems others had with mixing with Gryffindors in the past. Draco knew that back in sixth year, partially as a reaction to his own distraction and neglect, she’d gotten involved in quite the dalliance with Finnegan.

What actually was a problem for her, however, beyond colors, house points, and Quidditch scores, was blood status. Though Pansy’s father may not be willing to kill or be killed for the pure-blood ideals of Voldemort, he was very much insistent that his daughter and the Parkinson line remain pure, and her respect for him made her adhere to his wishes. She knew there was nothing serious that could happen with a half-blood, so the relationship with the Irish git had fizzled. As a pure-blood, Weasley presented no such problem, and Draco had been unsurprised when he and Pansy had started their mating dance.

As Draco’s dear friend, she’d known him long and knew him well. If she believed he could be happy with a half-blood or a Muggle-born, she’d have no problem with it. So, Pansy’s firm belief that Draco would only hurt Hermione stung him. She had no other reason to keep the two of them apart, and if she was as friendly with the girl as it seemed, she was no doubt sincere in her concern.

But had she no faith in him? Couldn’t she imagine he could grow and change? He wasn’t _so_ proud that he couldn’t see his own faults and set to mending them, he thought sourly. If his dearest, closest friends were doubting him like this, well... he would just have to set them straight as to just what kind of man he was, damn it! He was no longer the boy they’d known, and he could see when it was time to—

He was pulled from his thoughts by bright laughter from beyond the bush where he crouched. It seemed there was general consensus that it was definitely time to go in for lunch, so he flattened himself to the ground as Pansy, Ron, and Daphne made their way past him toward the house.

Rolling over to his back on the grass in the silence that followed, he took a deep breath of the blue sky, the green leaves, and the vibrant colors of the flowers surrounding him.

Hermione was in love with him. She’d forgiven him... she wanted him.

Shaking his head against the sheer impossibility of these simple facts, a wide smile transformed his face and his chest swelled with hope and happiness as he pushed to his feet and looked around. In the song of the birds, he heard the blissful message that Hermione no longer blamed him for Dumbledore’s death! The sweet scent of the roses perfumed the air with significance: she had truly cared for him in the time they’d spent together at Hogwarts! The warmth of the sun was tempered by the whisper from the cool breeze that what he’d thought had happened between the two of them in the Room of Requirement had not been his imagination!

But then, his gut insisted, if that were true, he’d been beastly to her. The sweet, sensitive, and unsure girl he’d tried to coax from her intellect and out of her clothes had been injured, gravely, by him. It was true villainy to have treated her as he had for the last year and a half and he could barely stand the thought of how he’d—

But now Draco had seen the error of his ways, and could put it right. He’d do anything and everything possible to make amends with her, and all the apologies in the world would mean nothing to him if it meant he could have Hermione by his side. The delight of that thought warmed him, bolstered him to his full height. Suddenly everything was full of beauty and possibility.

He picked up his broom from where he’d stashed it and made for the house, for lunch, for his future. The very air around him felt lighter, and it blew him gently in the way of the girl he’d long sought only in his dreams.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

Hermione had read books on the magic of positive thinking. The universe gave everyone what they focused on, what they asked for, what they felt they _deserved_ ; to concentrate on the negative would only bring more of the same. The adage that ‘the rich get richer and the poor get poorer’ was simply the way of things, and to think there was any form of justice or balancing of good deeds in this world was naïve.

She was neither naïve nor a martyr, and she knew what she wanted and deserved. Hermione wanted peace, she wanted love, and she wanted to never again have her world darkened by that insufferable, miserable, loathsome cockroach of a—

Positive. Affirmations of happiness and love. Nothing would darken her mind this afternoon, as she focused her mind and her energy on the inventory of these potions in the larder off the kitchen. It was a perfect occupation for her today to get her mind off of that mess of a party the night before. Luke Skywalker did surely fit Harry better. She’d never been attracted to Luke, for one, so that made some sense, but she couldn’t really be blamed for thinking Indy was—

No matter. It did suit him though, since the character was a bit of a curmudgeon and was really out for himself, even if it was in the name of intellectual and historical pursuits. And, of course, she _had_ always had a crush on—

Shrinking Solution, three phials; Blood-Replenishing Potion, seven phials; Calming Draught and Invigoration Draught, five phials each. As for potion ingredients, they were running dangerously low on Shrivelfig, daisy roots, and valerian roots. Molly would be happy to get these figures. Yes, very happy indeed that Hermione was performing such a useful service. She was useful to everyone, and everyone liked her. She deserved the best in life and was attracting much in the way of happiness and—

“Are you sure? Pansy actually said that he was in love with Hermione?”

The dreamy, sweet voice drifted in from the kitchen to where Hermione stood in the dimly-lit pantry. She nearly dropped a jar of lacewing flies, then froze.

“Yes, and it wasn’t just Pansy! Ron swears it too, and you know he’s got little love for the ferrety git.”

 _That_ was Ginny. The excitement and glee with which she delivered the news could be none other. As she heard the clink and clatter signifying Ginny and Luna were setting the table for lunch, Hermione dared move closer to the door, where the gap afforded a sliver view of the room and better (over)hearing.

But could they be talking about...?

“Oh, I believe it... He gazes at her when she’s not looking, and he seeks her out whenever he enters a room. It’s a very passionate romance,” said Luna. “I’m just surprised he’s admitted it to others, that’s all.”

“Well, I can see why you would be. Hermione’s so shrewish and unpleasant to him, can you imagine if he said anything that she could hear?” Ginny scoffed.

Hermione was shocked to hear such criticism from her friend. It wasn’t like she— Well, she didn’t always act like—

“Oh no... he definitely should keep it to himself.” Luna sounded more resolute than Hermione had ever heard her, and it sounded strange in her voice. “Draco will just be hurt if he tries to declare himself in any way.”

Since when did the two of them – or anyone in the Order, for that matter – care about Draco? Suddenly they were all worried about his feelings? But then... since when was _Hermione_ able to hurt his feelings?

“It’s true,” Ginny said sadly, “and it’s really too bad. I wasn’t one of the first to trust Malfoy when he showed up, and I fought Harry on it, I’ll admit. But he’s really proven himself.”

“Yes, definitely... I was with him and Daphne on a few missions, and he had some fascinating things to say about my theory of repopulating the Ukrainian Ironbelly.”

Well, now that was a bit of a surprise, but Hermione did recall that he was very interested in rare beasts, and could certainly hold a conversation for hours. Even with Luna.

Luna continued brightly. “I really think he has an affinity for dragons, not only because of the origin of his name, but because his aura is so aligned with the lower chakras.”

“Er... yeah, that’s great, Luna... but I meant that he’d really shown his mettle in battle. Even Ron said he’d fight with him anywhere, and you know how he relies on people to have his back.”

Ron had said that? Hermione was suddenly very sorry she’d had so little chance to see Draco in action; at her own request, she’d never been assigned to a team with him. He’d always been a good duelist, though, as she’d known from way back to second year. She hadn’t heard anything recently about him, and certainly not from Ron. Her friends knew she didn’t want to talk about Draco, and those who didn’t know learned quickly enough.

“So it’s sure then, that Hermione should positively, absolutely, under no circumstances hear anything of this?” Luna sounded a bit saddened at the prospect.

Finding herself saddened too, Hermione had to stop herself from trying to convince them otherwise.

“Yes, without question.” Ginny said firmly. “She would never hear tell of anything good about Malfoy, so there’s no use in trying. He deserves better, really.”

Hermione’s ears burned as hotly as her cheeks. Ginny and Luna finished up the table, their conversation turning to the ceremony tomorrow and debating whether it was strange that Ron was to be made Victoire’s godfather (though with Charlie too far away, Percy too much of a ponce, and the twins too much trouble, it wasn’t that odd of a choice), but she didn’t really hear them. She sank down to sit on the footstool, her project forgotten as the two of them left to call the others to lunch.

Was it possible what Ginny and Luna said? Could Draco have actually cared about her for more than what she could help him with sixth year? It had all seemed like part of one large plan of manipulation. Well, in retrospect, anyway.

He’d come to the Order as a means to an end, which fit with what she’d already suspected of his nature. But if he was making such an effort beyond what was required, what did that say about him? Hermione didn’t like being wrong, even as infrequently as it happened, but she had no reason to doubt the glowing reports she’d heard of him, considering their source. If she was mistaken about Draco’s character, she was ashamed at the contempt she’d shown to him. She had done him a great wrong if he was worthy of more.

Draco had been patient with her back in their time at Hogwarts, so solicitous of her comfort – with him as well as with herself – each patient kiss and caress teaching her to relax, to let go, to enjoy. She’d felt the dowdy, plain girl she’d thought she was disappear under his appreciation, burned away by his passion for her. Hermione had known he’d wanted her; she could feel it in more ways than one, and she’d grown to want him back, desperately.

But still, he’d held back, sensing her apprehension, and she’d held onto herself. Wanting all of him, she’d waited, not knowing what to do, uncomfortable with the secrecy of their meetings and so worried about what was beneath his tortured looks and exhaustion. Deep down, she’d known he was hiding something dark, and it had frightened her.

Even with all of that, she’d come to expect that Draco would be her first. She’d wanted it, looked forward to it.

There were more than feelings of betrayal beneath the anger she’d felt toward him since then. She’d resented the loss of his taste, the scent and warmth of his skin. She’d raged with frustration at how her own fingers couldn’t do what his could. She’d mourned the loss of her confidante, her friend, and her own heart yearned to be united with his.

That it now seemed possible was enough to propel her out of the past and to her feet.

Hermione resolved to take the condemnation of her friends to heart and set things to rights with Draco. He loved her, she realized suddenly, and she was breathless with the possibilities. Leaving the larder, she only half-heard Molly asking her to call everyone to lunch. Dazed, she felt the love she’d tamped down deep within her spring back to life.

Hermione could show it, proudly, to Draco and to the world, if he was truly in love with her as they said. She deserved it, after all. She deserved the best in life and was attracting much in the way of happiness. A joyous laugh bubbled up and out of her.  
Positive thinking truly was magic.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

Harry stifled a laugh.

It was the most ridiculous display of lovesickness he’d ever seen, and he was quite sure he’d gotten enough of a representative sample of the absurdity of young lovers for his opinion to really mean something. From his vantage point on the stairs, he could clearly see over the railing and below into the front hallway, where Malfoy and Hermione were apparently encountering each other for the first time since what Fred and George had titled ‘Operation Malmione” (which Harry had thought was ridiculous, but they just weren’t going for “Dramione,” even though he’d argued for consistency of first names).

Malfoy had come in from the back garden through the rear parlor and was walking toward the kitchen through the front hall. Hermione had come up from the kitchen and was going through the hallway to parts unknown. They’d frozen at the sight of each other, and a scintillating conversation followed.

“Hey,” said Draco.

“Hi,” said Hermione.

Silence reigned for a few beats.

“Erm... lunch ready?” Draco asked.

“Oh! Yes, lunch is ready. I was about to tell everyone.” Hermione shifted awkwardly, then gestured behind her toward the kitchen. “So... lunch is ready. I’ll just be...”

At that, she went to move around and past him, her head down, cheeks flushed. But Malfoy went to do the same and moved in the same direction. They stepped back and forth in this silly but timeless dance a few times more, before freezing and looking each other in the eye for a long moment.

Harry was beginning to feel like he’d need to give them their privacy when Seamus startled him from behind coming down the stairs.

“Mail here yet?” Seamus asked, his eyebrows furrowing at Harry’s shushing gesture.

“I think Moody’s coming back from the depot now. We’ll have it by the end of lunch,” he whispered. There was a central owl depot where all members of the Order got mail, not being able to receive anything directly at Grimmauld. They got correspondence about once a week, conditions in the war permitting.

A small smile lit Seamus’ face. “Good... good,” he said quietly. Looking over the railing, he rolled his eyes at the sight of the two lovebirds before going back upstairs.

Harry looked back to the show to see that Malfoy was taking matters into his own hands.

He took a deep breath and said, “Yes. Right.” Staying where he was, Malfoy turned and gestured for Hermione to be on her way past.

She did so, her cheeks even more flushed than Harry thought any cheeks capable of being, and she turned abruptly into the Library. Malfoy had watched her go, a look of clear longing on his face that Harry would never have believed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. After another long moment, he’d turned to continue on his own way to the kitchen.

Harry had to admit, albeit reluctantly – and if anyone mentioned it he would surely deny it – that this scheme had some merit. It was rather boring around here, after all, and the two of them looked like they could provide hours of entertainment.


	4. Chapter 4

  
**~ * ACT FOUR * ~**   


 

Draco wasn’t sure what to think about babies.

He’d never had a lot of contact with them, being an only child and pretty much the only one of his generation in the Malfoy or Black line (well, excepting those who had been blown off of their respective family trees). There was just never much occasion to see any, other than out in public. He’d never held one, actually, and couldn’t quite see the appeal to it; they were like really slippery puppies, but with much less chance of landing on their feet when dropped.

Fleur Delacour Weasley was a beautiful woman, without a doubt, but he didn’t feel any draw toward her. His father had told him there was something in their blood that made them immune to Veela, though he was vague about why. Draco admired her though, recalling her time as a Triwizard Champion and the only female to boot. She was a force to be reckoned with, all the more so because of how dazzled people were by her beauty and how liable they were to underestimate her because of it.

Bill Weasley had intimidated him when he’d arrived at Grimmauld Place, mainly because of the fresh scars marring his face. Draco had thought he was a werewolf, and he’d too recently been subjected to being terrorized by Greyback to be comfortable around him. But just as he’d grown (slowly, and through _a lot_ of habituation) to accept Remus as being not entirely unlike any other wizard, he’d figured that Bill was an alright bloke. He could fight like a madman and was wicked at breaking wards, and he had a dirty sense of humor that made nights of surveillance much less tedious.

So Bill and Fleur were okay, and together they’d made a baby, Victoire, who was fine as babies go, but what the three of them had done together that was really worthwhile was to gather everyone together for the ceremony to name Victoire’s godparents. _That_ had aligned the planets in such a way as to land Hermione smack-dab in the middle of the back garden in the late morning sun, wearing a pale yellow spring dress that was making Draco’s heart palpitate worryingly. She was smiling, laughing, holding that slippery, squealing little girl, and it was all making him rethink his stance on the existence of the gods.

Draco was standing off to the side away from everyone at leisure to observe, because Pansy and Daphne were still nowhere to be found and the ceremony was about to start. Pansy would be standing with Ron as he became godfather; it wasn’t unusual for a child to have named only one godparent, but there was usually some implication in that case that another would be supporting them in the duty. Usually it was a spouse or, as in this case, the presumed inevitable one. But Pansy was actually rather close to Fleur, as the two women shared a fondness for French fashion and kicking-arse in wand-fights.

Hermione started to move, first into the shade, then behind a clump of people, and Draco’s heart skipped as he lost sight of her. He shifted his position, angling, trying to see her, but a commotion suddenly moved the crowd about. All assembled went to the front of the gazebo as Arthur walked up the steps carrying Victoire. Pansy and Daphne made their appearance finally, going to stand with Ron, Bill, and Fleur at the foot of the steps. Following along, pushing between people and forward, Draco eventually got to a place where he could see Hermione. Just from behind and to the side, he had a lovely view of her shoulders and the side of her face as she took in the event.

Arthur was resplendent in this capacity, beaming as the grandfather and looking very official in his Ministry robes; it was always a treat when a family had one of their own capable of performing this ceremony. He began with a speech, and there was a hush as he waxed on about the importance of family, not only in this time of war, but always.

The Weasley patriarch proclaimed that family came in many shapes and sizes, and that the kith and kin one chooses is as important a bond as those of blood. Molly, standing between Harry and Hermione, wrapped her arms around the two of them as joyous tears ran down her rosy cheeks. Draco hadn’t realized Luna was standing next to him until he felt her arm looping through his.

This was ridiculous, he thought, as a rare warmth settled in his belly. He seemed to be growing dangerously soft. Pasting a scowl on his face, he sighed and blamed Hermione.

“Will the godfather please step forward to take the child,” Arthur said, beginning the ceremony.

Weasley did so, with Pansy at his side. Getting his first good look at his friend, Draco thought she seemed a bit stiff. The Weasel looked really comfortable holding the baby though, which he noted with a strange feeling of envy. Bill and Fleur came to stand behind them as Arthur began.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley, you are here to commit to the care, comfort, and protection of Victoire Weasley. Do you vow to devote yourself as a wizard to this little witch for the duration of your life and hers, keeping her safe and instructing her in the ways and traditions of magic as given to us by the Great Merlin himself?”

“I vow by Merlin and accept this honor,” Weasley said, and his voice was clear and confident. Draco was rather startled to hear it.

“Fleur and Bill, do you bestow upon Ronald Bilius Weasley all rights, duties and privileges you hold as the parents of Victoire Weasley to be taken up in your absence?”

“This we do vow by Merlin and confer this honor upon him,” Bill answered for both.

“And do you, Pansy Parkinson, accept with Ronald Bilius Weasley to share this honor of—”

“No,” Pansy said simply.

Everyone froze for a moment, not quite sure what was happening.

Then Molly suggested, “Arthur, that’s the phrasing for godmothers... it would probably be more appropriate—”

Looking quickly at his Ministry text, he cleared his throat nervously and hastened to say, “Oh yes, sorry...” There was a collective sigh of relief as Arthur continued, “And do you, Pansy Parkinson, agree to _support_ Ronald Bilius Weasley in this honor as conferred upon him by Fleur and Bill Weasley, and as he has accepted by a vow to Merlin?”

“No.” This Pansy said loudly and clearly, which started a wave of murmuring and shifting throughout the crowd. “I cannot support him in something he does not have.”

Weasley turned to her, his face pale with shock. “Pans, what’s the—”

“I cannot imagine his acting with any _honor_ , much less in something that requires the understanding of a _father_. He doesn’t understand the meaning of either word,” Pansy announced calmly and coldly to gasps from the crowd.

As Arthur and Molly asked what she was on about and Fleur whisked away the suddenly fussy Victoire, Draco looked on with dread. Hermione moved to Weasley’s side, her face flushed and her eyes intent, as Pansy pulled a letter from the pocket of her dress and began to read.

“‘Dearest Daughter. My wish to be reunited with you and my hope to escape the hell in which I serve have been dashed upon the rocks of cruelty and hatred.’”

Weasley reached for her. “Gods, Pans, what’s happened—”

She pulled away from him roughly, her voice raising as she continued to the crowd. “‘I have heard at last from the deposed Ministry. An emissary has made contact with me, finally, only to tell me that there will be no place for me or my sort anywhere in the future of wizarding Britain but in a cold, dank cell in Azkaban.

“‘One _Ron Weasley_ has made clear to me, in so many words and a fair few others, that adherence to the fine tradition of blood purity will no longer be tolerated in the world they seek to create.’”

Draco wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Weasley’s face went even more starkly white at those words. In contrast, Hermione’s heated to scarlet, and her eyes flashed with a fire that made Draco move himself closer to where she stood like a moth to that flame. Potter had moved to stand at his friend’s other side, and the two flanked Weasley. Glancing sideways, Draco saw that Daphne stood with Seamus of all people, both behind Pansy, neither in the least surprised by her words.

It all suddenly made sense to Draco, and he caught the clear scent of a rat wafting from that general direction.

Pansy continued reading. “‘This fine gentleman took upon himself to preach to me that the time for pure-blood ideals has passed. He called me a relic and proclaimed that any and all I suffer under the Dark Lord has been brought upon myself by my own stupidity.’” At this, Pansy’s voice finally caught, and in anger and frustration she abandoned the letter as emotion overcame her.

Weasley jumped in. “Pansy, you can’t believe I would do such a thing!”

Pansy’s eyes shone with tears. Draco hurt for his friend, knowing what her father meant to her, but he’d counseled her against this kind of rush to judgment before. She was like mercury, quickly moving where she was led, and her opinions and allegiance could change at the drop of a hat if her emotions got in the way.

Seamus would know this about her; he would have had the demoralizing experience of basking in her warmth one moment, only to be shut out in the cold the next. Though Draco badly wanted to try to shake some sense into Pansy, he knew from experience that it never worked.

Of course, Daphne was always there to help beat Pansy into a frenzy, and it was she who answered now. “She can’t? You deny that that this is your belief? That you don’t feel that her father deserves hell from that ‘half-blooded snake?’”

“How dare you, Greengrass?” Hermione shouted, fury radiating from her. “You know nothing about Ron if you think that he would have done anything like this. It’s a pack of lies!”

Everyone else was stunned to silence, probably thinking as Draco was, that they’d heard these words and much the same coming from Weasley in the past. They were certainly his sentiments; he had no patience with and no love lost for traditionalist pure-bloods. Draco had heard enough directed at himself to know that.

“It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks!” Weasley announced, puffed-up with indignation, finally. “I care about Pansy, and I’m committed to helping her and her father.” To Pansy directly, he said softly, “You have to believe me, I’ve been trying to make contact with him. We’ve sent three different messengers, and no one has been able to reach him.”

“What I think,” Pansy retorted, bolstered by anger, “is that you would do or say anything to get what you want. And though you may want me, you want the world to be just the way you want it even more. There’s never any room for anyone who disagrees with you.”

She wadded the parchment of the letter into a ball and threw it in his dumbstruck face.

“So you can keep your promises and your lies, Ronald Bilius Weasley. I wish Victoire the best of luck, being stuck with a pathetic excuse for a man as her godfather.”

At that, her eyes searched and found Draco in the crowd, and her triumph flickered slightly at his look of disappointment. His stomach twisting, he shook his head. He would not join her in this. With a defiant toss of her hair she stiffened her spine as she, Daphne, and a smug Seamus turned and left the back garden.

After a moment of bewilderment, Molly sprang to action, her voice only slightly shrill as she announced, “Alright everyone, there are refreshments in the house, including my carrot cake. Let’s all go inside to get out of the sun, shall we?” With that, she shepherded the majority of the guests away.

Hermione and Potter stayed with Weasley, and the rest moved to surround them.

Arthur broke the silence. “Son, if you’ve at all had anything to do—”

Hurt twisted Weasley’s face. “No, Dad! I haven’t been able to make contact, you know that. And I wouldn’t— I would never...” He trailed off, shaking his head, and Potter clapped a bracing hand on his shoulder.

“I actually might know what happened here,” Draco said quietly, and all eyes turned to him. “Was Seamus perhaps one of the emissaries sent to contact Parkinson?”

“Yes, actually,” Remus said, surprised. “But he wouldn’t have—”

Draco rolled his eyes. Gryffindors were so simple. “Wouldn’t have what? Been resentful, as a _half-blood_ , toward a man who didn’t think he was worth as much as one who was pure?”

“That is a very strong accusation to make, boy,” Moody growled. “You have anything to back that up?”

“Only that Seamus and Pansy had a fling at Hogwarts which he might have thought was going to be more.” Draco smirked at their shock, though he took no joy in this message. “Pansy, on the other hand, would never get too close to anyone her father wouldn’t _approve_ of, and she told Finnegan as much when she broke it off rather abruptly. She never has been particularly sensitive to people’s feelings, so she probably wasn’t very gentle with him.”

That revelation took a moment to digest, interrupted by Hermione’s astounded, “He’s _jealous_? That’s what moved him to—”

“Wait, Pansy and Seamus dated at Hogwarts?” Ginny’s brow knotted. “When was this?”

“During the winter of sixth—” Draco interjected.

“Ohh... now it make sense. His aura is so overwhelmed by orange that it could only be the result—”

“How could Seamus do something so underhanded?“ Potter shook his head sadly.

“Well, if we may quote that famous Irishman, Oscar Wilde—”

“—‘True friends stab you from the front.’”

“Hang on,” Weasley piped-in, “Pansy and Seamus were together in sixth year? Where the bloody hell was I?”

“With your tongue down Lavender’s throat, Ronald!” Hermione snapped.

Taken aback, he yelled, “What are you mad at me for?”

“I’m not!” she shrieked.

Draco stifled a chuckle. She was positively delightful when she was angry and frustrated and flushed and flustered, with her chest heaving and her eyes on fire. Her hair was dazzling in the sunlight, and he was suddenly struck with fear that he was going to begin spouting poetry about it. He needed to focus. Focus on the problem at hand.

“Listen, everyone,” Remus began. “There’s quite possibly a breach in Order protocol to be dealt with here, but we have to move forward on this accusation carefully.” He turned to Weasley, Arthur and Potter. “Let’s meet upstairs in a half hour, and we’ll discuss this rationally.”

There were general sounds of agreement, and the rest of the group agreed to go inside, talking furiously about secret trysts, auras, and Irishmen as they went.

But Hermione stayed behind and walked up into the gazebo. She stood looking over the railing at the garden beyond with her back to him, and Draco’s mood plummeted suddenly. He realized that underneath all of that gorgeous, glorious fury, she was confused and hurting for her friend.

Draco found he didn’t like that at all. There was a cold stone that lodged in his chest at the thought of Hermione’s pain, and he decided then and there to do something about it. If he was in fact a hero (and he believed in his heart that he was), then it wouldn’t be too far of a leap to be a Romantic Hero, would it?

Taking a deep breath, he ascended the stairs to try his hand at gallantry. He was sure that if an idiot like the Weasel could do it, he could, no problem.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

God, she hated this war.

It was a trite phrase and sentiment, because really, who did like war (other than callous politicians and cynical weapons manufacturers), but it was this part of it that truly broke her heart. The suspicion and accusations, the perpetual need to watch your back, and the feelings of insecurity and hopelessness made everyone feel like it was every man for himself. And that was all _within their side_. If Seamus had indeed struck-out in jealousy, it wouldn’t be the first time in the past year Hermione had been shocked and disappointed in the behavior of someone she called a friend.

The challenge in war was always to keep hold of one’s humanity; a difficult prospect while becoming an agent of death and destruction. But it could leave a person in subtle ways that had nothing to do with the battlefield. As for Seamus, she wondered who he’d been trying to hurt more: the pure-blood elitist he felt had wronged him, or his romantic rival. Hermione despaired at the feeling of rage and hopelessness that must have overtaken him to not care about collateral damage.

The wood floor of the gazebo creaked behind her and she stiffened, quickly wiping at her cheeks.

“Hermione, are you crying?” It was Draco, his voice soft.

“No,” she said, and it came out far more thick and indignant than she’d meant.

“Good... I wouldn’t like to see you cry.”

Hermione spun around, hands on her hips. “You never have, and you wouldn’t,” she said firmly.

He flinched slightly, but his eyes were filled with sorrow. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. He seemed to be trying to infuse that phrase with years of meaning.

She couldn’t even begin to contemplate that though, because she was suddenly taken aback. Her brow furrowed. “Why are you still here?”

His confidence wavered at that and he half-turned. “Do you want me to go?”

“No!” she blurted, though she hadn’t meant to sound so vehement. “I just... why didn’t you go with _them?_ ” That, finally, came out as she intended: dripping with disgust.

“I wanted to be sure you were alright.” he replied, as though he’d never even thought about siding with Pansy, Daphne, and Seamus. As though it was the most natural thing in the world, and as if it had never occurred to him he belonged anywhere else.

“Well,” she began disdainfully, “since she’s your _friend_ , I assumed—”

“She’s my _best_ friend,” he said warningly, and Hermione answered with a careless shrug. “But there are moments when you have to take a stand... choose a side.” He smirked gently and it made her stomach twist strangely. “I figured out long ago that siding with you is always a safe bet.”

She could have floated away on his words, but she found herself tearing up again. “I don’t know about that,” she said softly. “I don’t have the slightest clue how to fix this.”

He was at her side in an instant. “Who said you had to?”

Those words combined with the scent of him and the look of him in the sunlight were more than she could take. Her legs gave out and she plopped down on the bench behind her, bringing Draco to his knees before her.

He took her hand in his, studying it with a furrowed brow for a minute before he began to speak.

“Hermione, there are few things truly important to me anymore... my parents, the safety of my friends, defeating the Dark Lord...” His eyes lifted to meet hers, and her breath caught at his fierce gaze. “But it’s all just meaningless struggle without you.” Draco’s cheeks tinted pink at his admission and he looked down, his lips curved in a nervous smile. “Can you believe that?”

Hermione’s heart felt like it had turned into a bird that was trying to fly out of her chest. She was speechless until his eyes shot back up to hers. The vulnerability in his expression caused her hope to surge and made her want to believe him. She dared to whisper, “I want nothing more.”

At that, a wave of relief washed over Draco’s face and he tentatively leaned in to capture her lips in a sweet kiss. The secret, deeply buried part of her that had missed him escaped with a moan. He dove in to fully claim her mouth, reminding her of the taste she’d yearned for through long, lonely nights. Her hands reached for him, to again feel his hair in her fingers and to wrap herself around the warmth of him, but he pulled back gently and far too soon.

He was flushed and his eyes were dark, but his look was unwavering. “Hermione, if I could be of service...” He wrapped his arms loosely about her waist. “Would you allow me to help?”

Her stomach fluttered at his warmth and sincerity. She had friends for whom she would die and who would likewise fight through hell at her side, but she’d never had a _champion_. Presented with such gallantry and adoration kneeling before her, Hermione was suddenly giddy. So much fantasy manifest all at once made her heady with power and possibility.

“Yes, you can help. Betrayal like this cannot be allowed,” she said, her chin high. “Your _friends_ , those ‘defectors’ and the _traitor_... you can tell them to leave.”

Draco’s face fell. Pulling in a deep breath, he rushed on an exhale, “Hermione, they’re my friends. I just said—”

“They have deeply wronged _my_ friend! They can’t remain under the protection of the Order.” Hermione was filled with righteous fire and sure in her demand as she ignored his incredulous look. “They should go and never return. If you truly want to help me, you can make that happen. Renounce them.”

His expression twisted into a pained mask. “I would never...” He shook his head firmly. “I couldn’t cast my friends out to their deaths, you must know that, but Hermione—”

Hermione’s hope deflated and the fire in her veins immediately clouded her vision in red. “Then get away from me, Draco Malfoy,” she snapped, pushing at him to release her.

She saw nothing then but her own disappointment and mortification for having trusted him. Again, she had given herself over – only for a brief moment – to the belief that he was someone on whom she could depend. It was always so much worse to believe and have her hopes dashed – how could she have forgotten?

Squirming and twisting in his arms, she tried to get away from his hold and his empty promises, taunting with a humorless laugh, “You only ever side with _yourself_ , Malfoy. There is nothing in you to believe in.”

But he struggled with her, trying to calm her, begging for her to stop, imploring her to hear him.

Grasping behind her knee, Draco pulled her leg open to get in between and push closer to her. Taking one of her wrists, he dragged it behind her back and held it there. His other hand he threaded into the hair at her temple, holding her jaw in his palm. His forearm pressed to her chest to keep her steady.

Hermione had one arm free, but it was useless trying to hit and slap at him at the distance he held her. She settled for digging her fingernails into his neck as she pushed him as far from her as she could.

“I was right all along about you,” she hissed into his strained face. “You’ll do and say anything just to get what you want. Want to know how to make enchanted coins and fix a cabinet? Well, just a few kisses and you can get it out of the bookworm, can’t you? Simple. _Easy_ , isn’t she?” Hermione cursed the shake in her voice and the tears that gathered, gritting her teeth against the humiliation.

Draco froze, gaping at her wide-eyed for a dozen beats of her pounding heart before setting his jaw.

“Hermione, listen to me,” he said sternly. “Think for a second, and remember that I’m not one of your idiot friends.”

Indignant, she renewed her struggle, digging her nails in deeper, but he held firm.

“I knew how to cast the Protean Charm before we did it that night, didn’t I?” He shook her lightly. “Remember?”

Hermione shook her head, trying to avoid his eyes, but he was insistent, and she was drawn back helplessly into the swirl of mercury. She saw warmth the further she searched them, and there was something she would have known was sincerity if she could allow herself to trust his words.

“And that part of the Vanishing Cabinet we talked about? It was just a small piece. I didn’t need you for it—” He tightened his hold on her, gripping her wrist and clenching his fingers in her hair in frustration. “I didn’t _use_ you for it. I’m rather brilliant myself, thank you. I didn’t have to.”

Though her sheltered heart tried to deny it, his words actually made sense the more she let them seep in. If she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit that he was the only student at Hogwarts she’d considered a true intellectual equal, and she’d really discussed those things _with_ him, rather than _teaching_ him...

“But forget about me for a second.” He loosened his hold on her as his voice softened. “Why would you think that of yourself? How could you not know what you had to offer?”

His brow knotted with such bewildered sadness that Hermione had to look down, her eyes closing, tears finally falling. Draco released a long sigh and started this wonderfully soothing stroking thing with his thumb on her cheek. His other hand rubbed at her lower back, and she took deep, shuddering breaths.

Draco had so dazzled her sixth year. But he’d been so disdainful of her when they were kids that it had taken a long time for her to reconcile that he could truly feel something for her. Hermione had not had the greatest track record with boys in general, and the confidence she had in her intellect didn’t extend to romance. She’d only just begun to feel comfortable in the knowledge that there was something important happening between the two of them when Dumbledore had been killed.

After that, it had been easier to believe the worst of him than to have faith in herself. That hurt and anger had protected and sustained her for over a year; it was as difficult as it was terrifying to let it go.

Draco released his grip on her wrist and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. “Hermione, if you’ll let me, I have an idea that could help everyone,” he said, his voice soft in her ear. “If we can get a hold of Snape, we might be able to go through him to get to Parkinson.”

He kissed away the tears on her cheeks, but that just caused more to fall. She didn’t know anyone actually _did_ things like that outside of Gothic romance: literally kissing and making it better. It felt so nice.

“I just wish you could believe in me, Hermione,” he whispered, so low she wasn’t sure he meant for her to hear it.

But she was so shocked by his words that she lifted her head. He met her gaze, unashamed.

“There’s nothing I want from you _but_ you,” he said, his cheeks flushed but his eyes deadly serious.

Though large, ugly parts of her argued furiously against it, Hermione decided then that she could stop listening to them, at least for awhile. Maybe blokes like Draco really could go for girls like her. Maybe it wasn’t just in stories.

But most of what Hermione knew had come from books; she was a great believer in learned theory being put into practice. And she’d read enough of the great Romantic Heroines to at least fake how it was done.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

Harry yawned, yanked off his glasses, and rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye.

It was a fine plan, but a dangerous one. It required Snape to come out of hiding to contact a friend of a friend of Parkinson’s, and there was no guarantee of success. Malfoy had shown up with Hermione to present the idea, and had been earnest in his belief that the mechanism was there to make contact. Harry hated the idea of endangering Snape; he was still one of their most valuable weapons against Voldemort, but he recognized the necessity of getting to the bottom of this.

If they had a breach in their communications, even for something as petty as this seemed to be, it was an issue that had to be addressed. Having someone in their ranks who would endanger them all for a personal reason was a risk they could not afford.

Personally speaking though, if someone came after one of Harry’s friends, he was going to come after them, even if they were a friend too. Ron was rabid in his insistence that his innocence be proven, and furious that Seamus would attack him like this. But the greater part of his feelings were of hurt, and regardless of whether he was vindicated, the shock and pain of Pansy believing something so terrible of him wasn’t likely to be kissed and made better.

People trusted each other less and less nowadays though, and Harry worried about the last push of this war if they couldn’t even hold it together over a week’s furlough.

Perhaps he could just outlaw relationships or fraternizing amongst the ranks? Harry leaned back with his hands behind his head and dared to dream.


	5. Chapter 5

  
**~ * ACT FIVE * ~**   


 

Draco was only half listening.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the theme, as he could usually spend a rather pleasant hour on the subject of “Exactly What Is Wrong With Gryffindors in General and Weasley in Particular.” But his heart was not in it for a number of reasons, though Pansy and Daphne seemed to be going on a full head of steam.

For one, the topic was tired; it had been established long ago that the Weasel couldn’t find his arse with two hands and a mirror. Secondly, the lack of imagination that was going into this round was beneath the standards of Slytherin; the state of the family’s Gringotts account and their clear lack of familiarity with contraceptive charms were digs not worthy of a fifth-year. And finally... _ew_ ; Draco’s brain was going to have to be bleached clean after the part of the discussion touching on oddly placed freckles, stamina, and _curvature_.

But while waiting for the first all-member meeting of the Order of the Phoenix in over a half-year, he didn’t have much choice. Draco would much rather contemplate an entirely different Gryffindor though, and his mind had cooperated in that direction by blotting out much of his surroundings. He was aided by the fact that the night before (and the night before that, and the night before _that_ ) had been devoted solely to mapping the freckles and curves of one Hermione Granger, and he felt sure that he could write a sonnet on the beauty of her bum all on its own.

Hermione was busy at the moment with Remus and Moody on the other side of the kitchen, however, so he was stuck listening to his friends go on and on about someone they seemed to be working awfully hard to vilify. He and Weasley weren’t mates and they never would be, but there was nothing of the villain in him, and Draco was tired of the strutting act Pansy and Daphne had been performing about Grimmauld for the past three days. He could see they were disappointed at his refusal to join in, and it was frightfully unbecoming of both.

Just then, his quarry broke free of her conversation, so he interrupted his friends’ tirade with a parting shot. “By the way, Pansy, have you heard Finnegan hasn’t been seen or heard from since early yesterday?”

Both ladies froze, mouths working toward forming a response, and the query did no favor to their complexions.

“Curious, don’t you think?” Draco gifted them with his most piercingly pointed look, and made to cut Hermione off at the pass.

“Granger,” he said lowly from behind as she walked toward the door. She glanced back at him, winked, and kept going. His heart rate doubled. Following her out into the hallway, he decided the broom cupboard at the end of the hall was the perfect and most convenient spot. Reaching out to grab her elbow, he yanked, pulled open the door, and with a slam and a push was snogging her contentedly in the dim light.

Well, ‘contentedly’ was probably not the right word for Draco’s state, since he was almost unbearably hard and had been for days. Draco was a patient man, and he’d been raised to be a gentleman. All snide and scathing comments of the past year and a half aside, he would never actually push any woman beyond her comfort. Feeling rejected, he’d said stupid and hurtful things to Hermione, and if necessary, he could wait forever to make up for them.

Though he prayed to the gods he’d just started to believe in that he wouldn’t have to.

It’s not as though he hadn’t had satisfaction – he had, but he wanted it all. He wanted this witch to be _his_ , and for everyone to know it. He’d had enough of magic hiding places, locked rooms, and broom cupboards, but first he had to be a man in whom she could put her trust. That could take time.

Though Draco had taught her some things last night in the privacy of her room that could keep him for a long while. She was, predictably, as good at that as she was at everything else.

He broke off the kiss with a great groan as her hips arched against him; he took that as a very good sign. Opening his eyes, he pulled back to look and could only see her faintly in the light seeping in from the hallway.

She was glorious like this, all mussed hair and swollen lips. He couldn’t see well enough right now, but he knew those lips were a lovely pink, moist from their kisses. Suddenly struck with a rather vivid memory involving that same wonderfully wet mouth, he made to dive back in.

Hermione fisted the hand threaded in his hair, tugging him back, and he relented with a growl.

She cleared her throat daintily, looking unsure. “Draco, how are... things? How are you doing?”

Well, that was unexpected. “Why, I’m just fine, Hermione, thank you. How are _you_?”

She pursed her lips, and he felt it deep down in his gut. Damn. Everything she did now seemed designed to test his commitment to patience. He leaned toward her instinctively, but she went on.

“I’m asking because I wanted to know how things were with you... and with Pansy.” She took a deep breath and looked down. “How is Pansy doing?”

His eyebrows arched, but he should have figured she’d relent in her bad feelings for his friend. Bad behavior notwithstanding, Pansy had been played in this too. “She’s fine. As long as Pansy can turn hurt into rage at someone or something, she gets by.”

Hermione smiled faintly at that and gave a little nod. Tilting her head back in invitation, her smile was confident. Draco was nearly distracted enough to oblige, but decided this was an excellent opportunity to try out that new, more pleasant man he was working on becoming for her.

“So, uhm... what about Weasley? How’s he doing?” It came out more flat than he’d intended, and she didn’t seem quite convinced, if the widening of her eyes was any indication. He tried not to be too disheartened.

Her surprise quickly gave way to concern. “Ron’s not doing well.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m worried about him because he’s _not_ angry. He’s just so hurt...”

Her voice got disturbingly thick as she trailed off, and Draco worried she might start crying again. Mainly as distraction, he said, “Well, I have to admit, albeit reluctantly – and if you mention it, I will surely deny it – that Weasley's conducted himself well in all of this.”

That did the trick. The shock of hearing praise about the Weasel from him was enough to beat back the tears and leave Hermione gaping like a fish. Draco was a bit hurt to see she was _that_ stunned by it though.

“Surprised?” he said rather tersely.

She shook her head, smiling. “Some. Mostly, I’m impressed.”

Ah. That was better. “Well, I’m an impressive bloke in many ways,” he preened.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re big, bad, and just full of surprises.”

“I am, I am,” he murmured, pushing in close, pressing fully against her head to toe. Suddenly bold, he whispered in her ear, “Surprised how much you love me, then?”

He had no idea what possessed him to say such a thing. For a second, his heart screeched to a painful halt. When it returned, the pounding in his ears was all he could hear in the silence. It stretched on for what felt like ages.

But then she whispered back, “Not surprised at all.”

Draco could well imagine what he looked like when he pulled back to see her face, because it made her laugh outright. He knew he was smiling, and he didn’t much care.

Then her smile turned into a smirk. “I can’t really help it, you know. I’ve always had a thing for lost causes.”

Making a noise of great offense, he dove in to quickly nip her earlobe, pushing back to see her face as she squealed. With a sigh, he said, “You should take up my cause, Granger. I’m _exhausted_.”

Laughing, she ran both hands flat up his chest to his hold his jaw with the tips of her fingers. “Oh, really? I thought you seemed pleasantly sated. But if you need your rest, I’d be happy—”

Diving in, finally, way over his head, Draco kissed her soundly, deeply and passionately. She wrapped one leg around his waist, and he obliged by lifting her against the door. His fingers slowly made their way to what was quickly becoming his favorite place in the entire world, wizarding or Muggle.

When he pulled back to look at her, she took his breath away, stopped time, or whatever ridiculous cliché fit to explain how _this_ moment, this image of her, would now be the one most clear in his mind’s eye from here onward.

“You know what, Hermione?” he said softly. “You just might be worth all the fuss after all.”

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

If he didn’t stop distracting her, she was never going to make it through this meeting.

This was all tension-fraught and nerve-wracking enough without him staring at her, smirking, _sniffing his fingers_! Everyone probably thought she was feverish with how flushed she was. She could feel it down her chest and to her fingertips: the hot, scarlet mortification. God, everyone was probably looking at her right now, wondering—

Except everyone seemed to be paying all their attention to Remus. They were gathered in the kitchen at Grimmauld to get an update on where they were in the war, and it looked like things were about to heat back up. One more safe house had been secured, and the restored Ministry was functioning, if not fully operational. The meeting had started late; they were held up waiting for Harry to arrive, which he did a half-hour past time looking exhausted and more grown-up than she’d ever seen him.

Hermione’s heart had skipped at the realization that this was real. It was absurd the way things would hit her without warning, but she knew then they were coming to the end. Everything they’d grown and fought and strived to be had brought them to this.

She was going to focus, damn it, even if Draco was in the room, looking as delicious as treacle tart.

“But what we really need to move quickly on are the locations we’ve just gotten from a new defector,” Remus said, pausing to let that settle in with the packed crowd. “We’ll be bringing them in to discuss that with you all in a moment, but first, I want to make something clear: this person has come to us at great personal risk and has offered to help. Having been a member of Voldemort’s inner circle, he’s in a unique position to do so. Therefore,” he said, looking about to be sure he had everyone’s attention, “this person is now one of us.

“The Order does not lightly accept people into its ranks. We’re really rather cautious about former Death Eaters in particular, so you can be sure if there’s one among you, you can trust them and _our_ judgment.” Remus’ tone was exasperated, and it was clear he and other senior members had taken the infighting as a slight against their own vigilance. “There will be no suspicions of this _or any other_ defector from the rest of the Order,” he said with quiet intensity. “They are here to fight with us. We will no longer fight amongst ourselves.”

A hush fell over the room as he sat in his place at the head of the table. Hermione glanced at Draco to catch him looking at Remus with (begrudging) admiration. She liked the way it looked on him: it was certainly more approachable than his usual scowl. Hermione understood though, that suspicion and fear went both ways. In times like these, they all had their masks and shields.

Moody was limping to the head of the table as there was a commotion at the door. Kingsley strode in with the usual authority and flair, followed by a rather tall and very skinny man who looked to be in his fifties. His hair was entirely gray, his robes finely tailored, and his shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

“Daddy?” came a soft voice from the standing-room crowd by the sink.

Pansy pushed through with a look both hopeful and devastated. Hermione felt Ron stiffen in the seat next to her as the girl made her way to her father in a daze. She stared at him in shock for a moment before flinging her arms around him, her sobs muffled into his cloak. There was murmuring amongst the crowd, but Moody seemed content to halt the rest of the meeting while this played out.

Hermione suddenly missed her own parents with a sharpness she hadn’t felt in months. While it seemed at times there were as many motives for fighting this war as there were members of the Order, it all boiled down to why anyone fights for anything: to care for their families, to keep their loved ones safe. She turned to see Draco watching; relieved at the relief of his dear friend, he let out a long exhale. Beneath that though, Hermione recognized a grief for absent loved ones that mirrored her own.

After only a couple of minutes, Bennett Parkinson pulled away from his daughter and turned to look around the room with a hard expression. “Is Ron Weasley here?”

Ron stood, and Parkinson’s brow furrowed in confusion. Crossing to him, hand extended, Hermione had never seen Ron so upright and formal. “Nice meeting you, Mr Parkinson,” he said tightly.

“There must be a mistake... or I’m mistaken.” He turned to Pansy. “The one I met had red hair, but he was stockier, not as tall...”

It only took a second for her to realize who her father was describing, and her face went as white as the ghost of the Bloody Baron. “It was _Seamus_ who...?” Pansy asked weakly.

“Surprised?” Ron’s glare was withering. “Sometimes it’s hard to see people for who they really are.”

“But, Ron, I didn’t know!” Pansy was wide-eyed, frantic. “How was I supposed to know?”

Enough anger finally mixed with the hurt to cause an explosion. “You shouldn’t have to know, Pansy! You could have tried to understand, allowed me to explain...” He shook his head and his sorrow was palpable. “Or hell, you could have just believed in me.”

Those words rang uncomfortably close to home for Hermione. Recalling Draco’s pleas for the same from her over a year ago, she felt ashamed; for both her own actions and her rush to judge Pansy. She turned to find him already looking at her, and his expression was solemn but kind. He shook his head. She took a deep breath and nodded back.

Trusting and being vulnerable was not only a scary business, but one almost sure to involve missteps here and there. It meant being patient with each other in more ways than one, and Draco and Hermione both had things to forgive and faults to overlook.

If they could do it, perhaps there would be forgiveness in store for Pansy too. But not yet.

Pansy reached for Ron as he pulled away and went back to his seat. Hermione took his hand under the table and he squeezed back, but when she turned to him, he had only a weak smile to give.

Daphne stepped forward then, arms crossed over her chest, expression hard. She was always there to be of assistance to her friend when things got tough, if only to deflect blame. “What I want to know is what’s going to happen to Seamus? He can’t just get away with something like this!”

That brought a flurry of mumbles and grumbles and hisses from the room, which rose in volume and pitch until Harry stood, causing everyone to fall silent.

“I’m just back from Belfast,” he began tiredly, head down. “Seamus is there, and he’s going to stay there. He’s done with the Order and the war. I want you all to know that he was welcome to return, but he opted to be Obliviated of all Order information instead.”

He raised his head and looked around, and it was clear how pained he was by this business. “This war is changing all of us. We’re each handling it in our own way. But sometimes we don’t handle it at all, and it makes us do stupid things. Seamus made a mistake. It was rash and it was hurtful, but... it wasn’t irreversible. At this point, I don’t think any of us are in a position to judge him for it.

“We’re all terrified of what’s ahead,” he said, so sincerely that a faint chill shot through the room. It was easy for people to forget that Harry was human, and it was important for them to be reminded from time to time. “But the Order of the Phoenix is not an army, and we’re not the Death Eaters. You’re here of your own free will, and if you’re done, like Seamus, you’re free to leave. You can go any time, with all our thanks.

“But if you’re going, now is the time to go. Those of us who stay here tonight have to agree to commit to each other, to the war, to putting an end to Voldemort.”

There was silence as his words settled over the crowd. No one moved to go. Hermione noted that Pansy and her father had matching expressions of stoic defiance – like father, like daughter. She saw Molly reach for Arthur’s hand, and they shared a bracing smile. Everyone stood a little taller, raised their chins a bit higher.

Harry took all of it in, his green eyes strikingly bright. Hermione felt the rush of history at their backs, pushing them all inexorably toward the end. If the strength and resolve of her best friends were any indication, they were as ready as they’d ever be.

When it became clear no one was leaving, Harry nodded simply and sat. Moody got up to present information on the new targets provided by Parkinson, pointing each one out on a map, and the tension in the room simmered rather easily back down to normal. They were used to this; this was just war. After closing with more ridiculous safety tips for proper wand storage (exactly who had ever tried to stash theirs in a pickle barrel, anyway?), he yielded the floor again to Remus.

“Alright everyone. Since we’ve had a change in membership, we’ll need to move some people around to compensate. Harry, Ron and Hermione’s team is short now. I know everyone is really used to their partners, and it’s difficult to—”

“I’ll do it.” The voice was clear, deep, and unmistakably belonging to Draco. As he stepped up to Remus at the head of the table, he was looking directly at Hermione, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

There was a physical shift in the room. Conversation and conjecture was barely hushed, and it was clear most assumed a brawl was about to begin between their two favorite prize fighters. Fred and George sprang into action, spinning about taking bets. This time, the odds were notably even.

“Oh, Draco... right.” Remus stumbled, looking to the Trio where they sat in a row at the table. “Well, if it’s alright with—”

“Fine with me, Malfoy,” Harry said simply.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Ron, shrugging.

Having expected a bit more fuss than that, Hermione froze with the eyes of the room on her. There was only one pair of eyes that mattered though, and they were looking more and more strained as each second ticked by. That dreadful, treasonous blush was back, blooming madly and spreading wildly from her cheeks downward. Her palms were damp and her breathing was suddenly no longer within her control.

This was different than in the privacy of her bedroom or the dark of a broom cupboard. To declare her feelings here would mean that everyone would know... and if it didn’t work out, everyone would know that too. Hermione wasn’t good at this sort of thing, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. She could talk a good game and give the best advice in the world about relationships to friends and acquaintances alike; but like anything else with her, she was exceptionally well-learned in theory.

There was always a learning-curve when you got to the practical.

But then, there’s always one moment of truth, when one has to take a stand, choose a side, and that moment says everything about a person. Draco had made his, so she could no longer hide behind her fear of trusting him. He’d no more left to prove, and it was time for her to at least meet him halfway.

Though she felt like her skin was so flushed it was about to catch fire, Hermione willed herself to nod her head with calm confidence.

By the sound of it, that wasn’t quite the reaction the room had hoped for. From the look on his face, Draco had expected more too. The energy shifted as people started furiously hedging their bets. The twins leapt into the fore to assist in handicapping.

“Aw, come on, Hermione! We all know you’re desperate for him, love,” said Fred or George (at this point, it didn’t bloody matter who).

“Yeah, you’d like your lover boy with you on cold, rainy nights, I’ll _wager_ ,” said whoever’s infuriating carbon copy.

As annoyed as Hermione was at the twins and the frenzy of ridicule they were inspiring, it was Draco’s smug reaction she absolutely could not abide. His arched brow awakened something within, and she was bolstered by it: this part of her would always be able to meet Draco Malfoy unafraid. Like this, they were equals, adversaries, partners. As she stood to face him, a hush fell over the room.

 _This_ she was good at.

“On the contrary,” Hermione began lightly, “I agreed because I’ve heard such tales of _his_ desperation that I could not in good conscience deny him. He might do himself some sort of harm.”

A very healthy chorus of ‘oohs’ followed that as Draco’s smile morphed into an intent look of engagement.

“That’s interesting, Granger. You’ll have to correct the impressions of Pansy, Daphne and _Ron_ then, because they were quite convinced you were in a near-fatal swoon for my affection.”

Those ‘oohs’ turned to ‘ahhs’ as Hermione gasped in outrage. She rounded the table to stand before him.

“Well, you’ll have to check with Ginny and Luna, because they are rather convinced that your heart beats only for me.”

“Is that so? They said the deed I held to you were for parts a little farther south,” Draco said in a dangerous purr, his eyes tracking downward before flashing back to meet hers.

Hermione felt a tingle shoot right to that part of her he was so publicly claiming, but she refused to lose focus.

“Interesting, that,” she countered hotly, “because they seem to think the Malfoy family jewels no longer reside in the vault, but in my _hand_.”

The delighted twitters and groaning guffaws became nothing but background then. There was suddenly nothing but the electricity buzzing and arcing between Draco and herself. He was flushed, eyes bright, never wavering in his gaze. It was one of the most intimate moments of her life.

“Then,” he said quietly, “are you saying they were mistaken?”

Hermione was taken aback, finding herself again on a precipice. If she was jumping though, she was taking him with her.

“Are _you_ saying they were mistaken?”

His eyes narrowed as he growled. So mesmerized was she by steely grey, she didn’t notice him moving toward her until he reached for her face with both hands. That was only a moment before his lips came crashing down on hers.

Through the haze that separated them from the rest of the people in the room, Hermione could hear Fred and George furiously trying to settle up.

Whoever said ‘all’s fair in love and war’ had no idea what they were talking about. War had rules of engagement, treaties, laws, and clear winners and losers.

Love was primitive, chaotic, animal. But in love, everybody wins.

 

  
**~ * * ~**   


 

Harry sighed.

It was a great, big sigh, the kind everyone was getting used to hearing from him. The war was going well: more captures and arrests had been made in the past month than in the whole year previous. The Ministry was fully back on its feet, and law and order had tenuously returned to Diagon Alley. Hogwarts had yet to reopen but people were returning to Hogsmeade. Voldemort was on the run and the Order of the Phoenix was closing in.

The mood in the front parlor at Grimmauld Place this evening was again one of hopefulness and jubilation.

But the war wasn’t the bloody problem.

Harry could deal with the living in close quarters in safe houses. He could deal with the shortages, the lack of sleep, and the constant threat of a megalomaniacal psychopath out to kill him and everyone he loved.

And he could deal with the little things beyond his identity as a warrior too. He could accept the fear and the anger that permeated every day, the grief of mourning the loss of loved ones and a way of life, and the fact that everyone looked to him to save the wizarding world.

He’d even learned to deal with excessive, public, inappropriately-timed displays of affection.

What Harry couldn’t deal with – what he’d indeed finally lost patience for – was the battle that waged without ceasing between Pansy and Ron. They were incapable of putting their differences to rest, but also apparently unable to stay away from each other. He didn’t find it amusing or entertaining like the others did, and he prayed constantly for the fortitude to withstand the storm that was brewing.

If the conversation happening to the left of him was any indication of things to come, it would be a hurricane the likes of which he’d barely tolerated last time.

“You know, it’s so clear those two really love each other. If only they could see it.”

“Really? I must not be familiar with this particular mating dance. Is the throwing of one’s drink in the other’s face a traditional endearment?”

“Cute, Draco. I’m not saying it’s obvious—”

“You just said it was ‘clear.’ How does that not—”

“I’m just saying that they need a push, that’s all. I think if we could just get them to see how much they really love each other, they wouldn’t need to fight.”

“Hermione, that only happens in your books.”

“Don’t be silly – it happens all the time in plays and movies.”

“Well, then. I stand corrected.”

“It worked for us.”

Hermione had pushed her way into Malfoy’s lap, and Harry was beginning to rethink his tolerance of public displays of affection. He began formulating an escape plan.

“Yeah, well, we’re different.” Malfoy responded rather huffily.

Hermione leaned in to whisper in his ear, and his frown turned into a smirk. At that, Harry was just about resolved to get up and go when Malfoy scooped Hermione into his arms and stood, sweeping her squealing and giggling out of the parlor.

Harry sighed yet again. Two down.

But Ron and Pansy’s fight seemed to have moved on to the topic of Hogwarts classes, and they were currently arguing who had been better in Potions. This wasn’t going to end anytime soon; the odds the twins were giving were far too good.

He’d had it and was about to abandon this room – with the most comfortable sofas and the best light – for his dark, Doxy-ridden one upstairs, when Ginny came up to him with a hard, burning look and straddled his lap. Harry was not just the sort who disliked witnessing public displays of affection; he was terribly uncomfortable _participating_ in them (post-Quidditch victory parties notwithstanding).

“Ginny, what—”

She kissed him then, a long, languid kiss that made every muscle in his body feel like he was sinking into a hot bath. When she was through, she pulled back, and if it weren’t for her eyebrow raised in amusement, Harry wouldn’t have noticed the shouts in the background.

“Oi! Ginny, that’s just... wrong.”

“Ack! My eyes!”

And with that, the twins quit the room.

Glancing around, Harry saw two more Weasley siblings among those left, and realized Ginny might have the right idea for getting rid of them. “But what about the others? Only your brothers are going to care if we...”

“You wanna bet? How about we see how far we can get in our _public display_ before people take the hint and leave? Maybe they’ll even learn something.” She smirked wickedly.

Harry’s face flushed, but not all parts of him were as shy as his sensibilities. His heart, for instance, was not shy at all. “I love you, Ginny Weasley.”

She smiled, looking both proud of him and smug as hell. “See how simple that is? You would never guess with the way people carry on around here.” Leaning in, her lips just touching his, she whispered, “C’mon, Harry Potter, let’s show them how it’s done.”

What the hell, Harry thought. It _was_ his house.

 

  
**~ * THE END * ~**   



End file.
